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Copyright 1^^ 



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REMINISCENCES OF 
A RANCHMAN 



REMINISCENCES OF 
A RANCHMAN 



BY 



EDGAR BEECHER BRONSON 






NEW YORK 

THE MCCLURE COMPANY 

MCMVIII 



Copyrighl, 190S, by The McC/nre Company 



Published, September, 1908 



I I wo aooies rt«n:u.'>r^ 

I OCT 17 liyuii 

,(Dtfc.l1, fio« [ 

b-:i O O i ^ \ 



Copyright, 1908, by The Pearson Publishing Company 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. A Desert Sport 3 

II. The Making of a Cowboy 23 

III. The Tenderfoot's Trials 52 

IV. The Tenderfoot's First Heed 74 
V. A Cowboy Mutiny 93 

VI. Wintering Among Rustlers 107 

VII. A Finish Fight for a Birthright 127 

VIII. McGillicuddy's Sword 198 

IX. The Last Great Sun Dance 221 

X. End of the Trail (Cowboy Logic and 

Frolic) 252 

XL Concho Curly at the Op'ra 274 

XII. Adios to Deadman 291 



REMINISCENCES OF 
A RANCHMAN 



CHAPTER ONE 

A DESERT SPORT 

A H, yes, indeed, my boy, you are quite right. 

/_% My years in the Sierras and plains of Cah- 
^^ J^ fornia, Oregon, and Nevada were the hap- 
piest I have ever known or ever expect to know. 

" Science I love, but geology is the only branch of 
science that could have held me to its active, per- 
sistent pursuit. 

" For me the study or the laboratory would have 
been utterly impossible. 

" The working geologist, on the contrary, dwells 
in close contact with Nature in her wildest and most 
savage moods. He seeks the solution of his problems 
^^ here vast dynamic forces have in past ages crumpled 
the earth's crust and brought huge mountain ranges 
into being — ranges that expose its structure and tell 
much from which we may deduce how its structure 
was accomplished. 

" Our tasks take us out across the rolling yellow 
billows of the plains, through the profound silences 

[3] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

of burning deserts, whose colours would fire the 
artist's brain to frenzy, up into the magnificent up- 
lifts of the Sierras, with their singing brooks and 
roaring torrents, their majestic redwoods and fra- 
grant pines, their smiling, flowery glades and sinister 
bald summits, their warm, sheltered nooks and grim, 
pitiless glaciers — out beyond civilisation and settle- 
ments, where to sustain himself man must confront 
the raw forces of animate and inanimate nature, as 
did our forebears of the stone age, and conquer or 
succumb. It is a life that develops weird types, and it 
is of one of these I am about to tell you." 

The speaker was Clarence King, one of the intel- 
lectual princes of the earth, with a stout berserker 
heart set in a breast tender of sentiment as a wom- 
an's, a man whose friends were many as the folk he 
knew. 

It was in 1875. 

He was then engaged in compiling, from his notes, 
the reports and maps of the field work on the 40th 
Parallel which, scientifically, remain his greatest 
monument, assisted in this work by S. F. Emmons, 
Jas. T. Gardiner, and Arnold Hague, his field staff. 

On the introduction and recommendation of John 
Hay, then lately returned from service as Minister to 
Spain, and at the tinje an editorial writer on The 

[4] 



A DESERT SPORT 

Tribune, King had employed me as a sort of secre- 
tary to assist In the publication of the reports. 

We were spending the summer in Newport, living 
and working in the old hip-roofed house at the corner 
of Church and High Streets that had belonged to his 
aunt, Catherine King, a house bright with the rich 
fabrics, grim with the weird carvings and porcelains, 
and fragrant with the strange scents of the Far East, 
where King's father and two uncles were the first 
American traders, and where all three lost their lives 
most tragically. 

It was during a lull in the work — and the lulls 
came often and sometimes lasted through many work- 
ing hours ; came often as a new stage of the notes 
reached reminded him of battles fought and won 
in his struggles for the mastery of old Paleozoic 
secrets — thirsting in the Bad Lands, scorching in 
the Mojave Desert, slipping on glacial slopes of Mt. 
Whitney, leaping crevasses on Mt. Rainier, struggles 
with broncos, fights with grizzlies, scraps with In- 
dians — tales to fire the love of adventure latent in 
most youngsters ; tales that fired mine and turned the 
tables of my life, turned me from the newspaper work 
then my trade, and made me mount a train the very 
day after my work with him was finished, ticketed 
straight away to Cheyenne. 

[5] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" It was while I was with Brewer," King resumed. 
" We had finished a season's field work and were jour- 
neying across the Humboldt Desert, with a pack out- 
fit, to our California headquarters. 

" The Indians were bad that year, and we had with 
us a small escort of ten cavalrymen. 

" Our two packers, besides being worthy kniglits 
of the Diamond Hitch, were otherwise accomplished. 

" Fresno Pete was a half-breed Mexican vaquerOf 
earlier famous from the Fresno to the Sacramento as 
a bronco buster. Many the time on dias de fiesta, at 
some rancho or placita of the San Joaquin Valley, 
sloe-eyed senoritas smiled, silver-girt sombreros were 
tossed in air, many-coloured rehosos waved, and lusty 
hravos shouted in compliment to some victory of 
Fresno Pete's over all comers, vaqueros and horses 
alike — and the San Joaquin was for man}' years 
famous for breeding the wildest broncos and best 
busters in the State. 

" Faro Harry was a Virginia City gambler, a 
graceful, supple figure, sinuous of movement as a 
snake, quick as a cat, and of a superhuman dexterity 
with a pistol, who, by his own reserved account, had 
sought service with us for his health. But from ob- 
servation of his perfect physique and some knowledge 
of the high esteem in which he was held by Virginia's 

[6] 



A DESERT SPORT 

undertakers, Harry's real motive for absenting him- 
self from the rich pickings of mine owners' private 
rolls and pay rolls, and contenting himself with a 
packer's modest pay, was surmised by our party to 
lie in the fact that the local Virginia ' Boot Hill ' 
(especially reserved to the occupancy of gentlemen 
who had passed out of this life with their boots on) 
was full to overflowing, suggesting temporary sus- 
pension of his recreations until a contemplated addi- 
tion to the ' Hill ' could be made ready. 

" We had been on very scant rations of water for 
forty-eight hours, our throats and nostrils parched 
and our skin cracked by the fierce heat and blinding 
sands of the desert. It was, therefore, with the great- 
est satisfaction we pitched camp early one afternoon 
in the little clump of cottonwoods about Antelope 
Spring, the only water on the desert trail, and by 
turns buried our faces in its cool depths and lolled in 
the shade its waters fed. 

" The spring was then held, by right of occupancy 
at least, if by no better title, by Old Man Tison, a 
hunter well-nigh sixty, but strong and active as in his 
youth — a tall, gaunt, sinewy man, with a shock of 
iron-gray hair falling over the collar of his buckskin 
shirt ; great festoons, that looked like Spanish moss 
pendent from his chin, close-set, fierce gray eyes glar- 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Ing out from ambush beneath other clusters of gray 
moss, with hands hke hams and moccasined feet that 
left a trail that ' looked like where a bunch of deer 
had bedded,' in the vernacular of the region. 

" Tison's cabin stood perhaps fifty yards from the 
spring, and there he had dwelt I don't know how 
many years, with a Pah-Ute squaw for a helpmeet, 
and seven or eight half-breeds, of assorted sizes, as 
incidents. He had a few cows and piebald cayuse 
ponies, but subsisted himself chiefly by selling water 
and venison to overland travellers, for wayfarers on 
the desert had as little time to hunt meat as they had 
opportunity to get water. 

" Not long after we pitched camp, refreshed by the 
water and the shade, I strolled over toward Tison's 
cabin, for he had not yet been near us. As I ap- 
proached the cabin, a great, fierce yellow dog, evi- 
dently of a strong mastiff strain, sprang out at me, 
snarling and snapping viciously. No one showed at 
the door or the one window of the cabin. Glad of re- 
lief from its weight, I had left my pistol belt in camp. 
Thus I was confronting the dog with bare hands, too 
far from the door to make it before he could seize me, 
without even stick or stone in reach, and yet reluctant 
to call for help from his heedless owner. 

" In this dilemma, waiting till the dog dashed up 

[8] 



A DESERT SPORT 

almost upon mc, I made a spring, seized him by either 
jowl, gave him a violent shaking for a moment, and 
then, releasing one hand, patted him on the head and 
spoke to him quietly. 

" First the savage wrinkles began to smooth out of 
his face, then his tail started a friendly wag, and the 
next thing I knew his great paws were on my shoul- 
ders, and he was fawning upon me as violently as a 
few seconds before he had threatened. 

" Just at this very moment old Tison himself 
stepped to the door. He must have heard the snarling 
and barking, but had seen none of the earlier stages 
of the incident. 

" ' Fine dog you have, sir,' I called. ' Must be a 
splendid watch dog.' 

" ' Hell he is. I sorta thort he was. Say, stranger,' 
he asked, ' did yu-all ever see that thar dog bef o' ? 
Were he raised wi' yu, or anythin' thataway ? ' 

" ' Why no, I never set eyes on him until this very 
minute. Has a nice, kind temper, hasn't he? ' 

" * Wall, stranger, sence yu 'pear t' think so much 

o' him 'n' he o' yu, he's y'urn. Stranger, by no 

man ever handled that thar dog befo' but me, 'n' I 

won't have airy d n dog 't airy other feller kin 

handle,' he snapped, in a growl as surly and threaten- 
ing as his dog's. * What 'n hell the use o' a d n 

[9] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

dog 't airy fool stranger 't comes along kin handle? 
Might 's well have a passle o' sheep round,' he added, 
after a moment's pause. 

" ' Suppose you and your dog take a running jump 
for — Yuma,' I suggested, turned back to camp, told 
Brewer and the boys the incident, and received their 
congratulations on the cordiality of my reception by 
the lord of this desert manor. 

" And before the laugh at my expense had ceased, 
a shot rang out from the direction of the cabin, and, 
looking, we could see the dog's great tawny length 
writhing in death throes on the sand ! 

" A half hour later, Tison strolled over to our 
camp fire, drawled a gruff * Howdy,' with a compre- 
hensive nod, and stood for some time staring sullenly 
in the fire. Presently he spoke: 

" * Boys, yu-all's done handled my dog, but I want 

to tell yu I'm the d dst best bronco buster 't ever 

forked a twister, 'n' I got a cayuse 'ts sech plumb 
p'ison 't nobody's ever sot him fer keeps but me. Ef 
thar was airy man in this ycrc camp as thinks he's 
th' reel thing in huckjeros, I'd admire t' see him fork 
that thar cayuse. O' course, I cain't promise nuthin' 
t' his widder, 'cept that th' r^-mains will be gathered 
'n' planted wi' cer'monies.' 

" This challenge was nothing short of joy to Fres- 
[10] 



A DESERT SPORT 

no Pete, who for weeks had been showering rolling 
Spanish expletives upon the steady pack train mule 
he rode for its unbearable docility. 

" ' Meestar Teeson,' Pete promptly spoke up, * I 
weell have much gusto try for ride your horse. He 
keel me — buenOy no i/mporta, for I no have woman, 
me. But, carajo! I much more like keel him. Injun 
cayuse never foaled can t'row Pete.' 

" Without another word, Tison strode off to his 
house, and soon a couple of little half-breeds were 
scurrying out over some low sand hills, from behind 
which they shortly drove in and penned seven or eight 
ponies. As they entered, Pete picked up his riata, 
bridle and saddle, and started for the pen, followed 
by every man in camp, including the cook. 

" Arrived, Pete entered and joined Tison, while 
the rest of us distributed ourselves along the top rails 
of the corral fence. 

" * Stranger,' growled Tison, * ef you hain't got no 
mammy o' neah kin folk 't '11 miss yu none, yu might 
drop yu rope on that thar split-eared pinto, 'n' ef yu 
cain't git yu' saddle on him, jes' call on th' ole man ' 
— and then he, too, discreetly climbed the fence. 

" The pinto indicated was an unusually stocky 
build for an Indian pony, heavier than the average by 
two hundred pounds, lacking the usual long barrel, 

[11] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

ewe nock and light quarters of his breed — a powerful 
beast for his inches. 

" The moment the lariat noose tightened on liis 
neck, he charged at Pete like a thunderbolt, with 
mouth open, teeth bared, and such a look of fury on 
his face that, to Tison's great delight, and the gen- 
eral amusement of the crowd, Pete made a hasty and 
ignominious ascent of the fence. 

" Then Pete slipped down from the fence, caught 
the end of the trailing rope, and sought to snub it 
about a snubbing post. But he was too slow. Before 
he could reach it the pinto was almost upon hitn, 
reared on its hind legs, prepared to strike, and Pete 
had to shift tactics. 

" Just as the pinto struck, Pete side-stepped and 
sprang back fifteen or twenty feet, and then, as the 
pinto again reared, Pete threw a half-hitch circle in 
his rope that ran rapidly up the rope till it neatly 
encircled both forefeet, made a quick run to one side, 
and gave a stout pull, and brought the pinto to the 
ground. Before he could rise, Pete lit on him and soon 
had the wicked hind hoofs safely half-hitched, and all 
four feet securely bound together in the ' hog-tie.' 

" After that, it was only a matter of a little time 
to saddle and bridle him, while he thus lay bound 
upon the ground. 

[12] 



A DESERT SPORT 

" Then Pete placed his left foot in the stirrup and 
stood astride the horse, seized reins and saddle horn 
in his right hand, reached down with his left and re- 
leased the bound feet, and the pinto rose under him, 
with Pete firmly settled in the saddle. 

" ' Huh ! ' grunted old Tison, ' thinks he's d n 

smart, don't he? Wait till th' pinto lites in to drive 
his backbone up thru th' top o' his haid, 'n' ef she 
ain't case-hardened, he'll shore do it.' 

" And that the pinto honestly tried to make old 
Tison's word good we were all ready to admit. 

" The gate had been opened, and Pete wanted, of 
course, to get him outside. But this did not suit the 
peculiarly devilish strategy of the pinto, who was 
quick to observe useful first aids to the injured 
bronco within the walls of the corral itself. Along 
the north wall of the pen ran a long, low shed, a 
shed so low that when, after three or four minutes' 
violent bucking in the centre of the pen that would 
have unseated most men, the pinto suddenly plunged, 
bucking high as he could leap, beneath the shed, 
Pete had to swing his body down alongside the 
horse, till quite below level of horn and cantle, to 
save himself. 

" Disgusted with this failure the pinto pitched 
madly twice about the open pen, then stopped and 
[13] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

looked about. To his right, a low gate or door had 
been cut through the solid log wall, leading to a milk 
pen, the upper log left uncut for lintel. The moment 
he espied this door, at it the pinto dashed, and rein 
and spur as he would, Pete could not turn him. Noth- 
ing remained but to throw himself bodily out of the 
saddle, and so throw himself Pete did (without seri- 
ous injury), just as the horse plunged through the 
door, the horn of the saddle catching on the lintel, 
bursting latigos and tearing out cinch rings, and 
leaving the saddle a wreck behind liim. 

" ' Bein' as th' pinto's so easy gaitcd 'n' kind like, 
would yu now allow t' ride him bar' back, o' shall we- 
uns loan yu a saddle ? ' patronisingly queried old 
Tison. 

" ' I tak a saddle, me, por ese diahlo,' panted Pete. 

" Another saddle was quickly brought. 

" The pinto, bleeding of flank where the rending 
saddle had torn him, was driven back into the main 
corral, Pete again roped him, and, with Harry's help, 
drove him through the gate into the open, where he 
was again saddled, and Pete remounted. 

" Then ensued a battle royal between bronco and 
buster, for perhaps twenty minutes — the bronco by 
turns pitching furiously, and then standing and try- 
ing to kick Pete's feet out of the stirrups, or bowing 
[U] 



A DESERT SPORT 

his neck in effort to bite his legs, with an occa- 
sional rear and fall backward, while all the time 
Pete's spurs and quirt were cruelly searching flank 
and shoulders. 

" In the end Pete conquered, rode the pinto quietly 
back into the pen, drawn of flank, quivering in every 
muscle, hardly able to stand, and painfully swung out 
of the saddle, his own nose bleeding severely. 

" ' Wall, stranger, I reckon it's up t' me t' say yu 
shore kin ride some,' grumbled old Tison, and then 
we all strode back to camp. 

" A half hour before supper was called old Tison 
paid us another visit. For probably ten minutes he 
stood, glum and silent, among us. Then, suddenly, 
his face brightened with a happy thought, and, still 
staring into the fire, he spoke : 

" ' Fellers, I 'lows yu-all reckons I'm a purty pore 
sort o' white trash. Yu done handled my dog 'n' rid 
th' pinto. But I now puts it up to yu-all cold that 
thar ain't airy one o' yu bunch kin tech me a shootin' 
'v a gun. I'm the shore chief o' th' Humboldt Desert 
wi' a six-shooter ; wi' a six, fellers, I'm a wolf off the 
headwaters o' Bitter Creek, 'n' it's my time t' howl 
all th' time ! Don't guess airy o' yu fellers kin shoot 
none, kin yu? ' 

" This was plainly Faro Harry's cue, and he mod- 
[15] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

estly mentioned that some of his friends thought he 
could shoot a little, but probably he would not be in 
it with a real Bitter Creek lead pumper — a gentle 
piece of irony from a man so expert he could have let 
Tison draw and then have killed him before he got his 
gun cocked. 

" Tison had shown such an ugly mood that none of 
us, probably Harry least of all, were certain whether 
his proposal was meant as an invitation to a fight or 
a target match. It was, therefore, some relief to us 
when Tison answered: 

" ' Huh ! Think yu kin shoot a leetle, do they ? 
Wall, yu'll have t' shoot straight as ole Mahster 
travels when he makes up his mind t' git yu, t' hold a 
candle t' me. Ef yu has no objections, I'll jes shoot 
yu three shots apiece fo' th' champeenship o' this yere 
desert ; 'n' yu beats me, yu shore wins her.' 

" A match was soon arranged, distance ten paces, 
Harry's target the three spot of spades, Tison's the 
three of clubs. 

" Tison fired his round, aiming carefully and slow- 
ly, fairly hitting two of the three clubs, and narrowly 
missing the third. 

" Then Harry, firing quickly and rapidly, sent a 
ball into each of his three spades, amazingly near the 
centre of each. 

[16] 



A DESERT SPORT 

" ' 'Cain't do it agin, with my gun, kin yu? ' Tison 
grumbled. 

" Faro promptly took Tison's pistol, and a mo- 
ment later had almost plugged the three holes pre- 
viously made in his three spades. 

" Tison received back his pistol, turned it over in 
his hands once or twice, felt of hammer and trigger, 
and then tossed it on the ground, remarking: 

" ' Reckon 't's up to me t' r^-tire from th' shoot- 
in' biznes ! ' and he slouched back to the house. 

" As we were sitting down to supper, Professor 
Brewer remarked to Faro : 

" ' Well, Harry, I imagine you have taken the last 
ounce of brag out of Old Man Tison. Surely there 
can be nothing else he can fancy himself such a past 
master of that he will be after us with a new chal- 
lenge.' 

" ' Professor,' answered Harry, ' I has to disagree 
with you. I know that old coffee-cooler's breed pretty 
well, and if I'm not badly mistaken, he'll be makin' 
plays at us till the game closes by our leavin', or at 
least until he finds a game he can do us at. Mighty 
stick-to-a-tive kind o' folks, his'n. Cain't just think 
what she's apt to be, but he's dead sure to spring a 
new play of some sort.' 

" And Faro's prediction proved true as his shoot- 
[17] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

ing, for scarcely was our supper finished when out of 
the darkness and into the circle of our firelight 
stalked the grim figure of old Tison. 

" Come among us, he was chipper and chatty in a 
measure we realised boded us no good, for it bespoke 
a joy we had learned he did not indulge, at least in 
his intercourse with us, except when he believed he 
had worked out some new scheme for our humiliation. 
Indeed he was so nearly downright gay, we sus- 
pected he had some plan to tackle us en bloc instead 
of individually. 

" However, we were not left long in suspense — he 
was so pleased with and sure of his new line of attack 
he could not long hold it, and he also appeared to 
fear it would take some diplomacy and wheedhng to 
enmesh us. 

" ' Fellers,' he began, * I reckon it's up to me t' 
sorta 'pologise to yu-all. O' course 't ain't calc'lated 
t' sweeten a feller's temper none t' have his dog 
handled, his worst outlaw rid, 'n' t' have th' hull lites 
'n' liver o' his conceit 'bout bein' th' best gun shot on 
th' desert kicked plumb outen him at one kick ; 'n' 

then, besides, that d d old squaw up t' th' cabin, 

she gets t' steppin' on my narves pow'ful hard some- 
times, 'specially lately, gittin' fool idees in her ole 
Injun head 'bout dressin' up 'n' bein' fush'n'ble 'n' 
[18 J 



A DESERT SPORT 

goin' visitin' 'n' travellin', like she sees these yere emi- 
grants' women on th' overland trail dress up 'n' go, 
'n' 't's gittin' t' be jest 'bout hell t' git t' hold her. 
Which-all 's my ^^-cuse fer treatin' o' yu-all like t' 
make yu think I feels I wa'n't licked on the squar. 
But squar 't was 'n' thar's no squeal comin' t' me, 
'n' I makes none, 'n' that's what I come over t' tell 
yu.' 

" After a brief pause, a pause so brief we lacked 
time to make due acknowledgment of his apology, 
he resumed : 

" ' But bein' 's I'm here 't jest occurs t' me t' re- 
mark that my game's seven-up, 'n' that thar ain't 
airy feller 'twixt Salt Lake 'n' Sacramento, 'nless 
some fancy-fingered perfeshnul short-card sharp, 
whose money ain't like jest nachally findin' it t' me at 
that thar game. O' cou'se, arter sech a admission, I 
ain't a invitin' o' anybody t' shuffle 'n' deal wi' me, 
but I shore got a deck over 't th' cabin that ain't busy 
none, 'n' ef airy o' yu sci'ntific gents counts gamblin' 
among yu' 'complishments, an' actooally insists on 't, 
I might be pe'suaded t' go yu a whirl.' 

" Oddly enough, Professor Brewer, for a member 

of the church, was far and away the best seven-up 

player I ever knew. He loved the game and played it 

often — for diversion, never for stake of any kind. But 

[19] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

this night, carried away by tlie humour of the situa- 
tion, Brewer whispered to me: 

" ' King, it does seem a duty to take another fall 
out of that old bunch of conceit ; I really believe I 
ought to tackle him.' 

" And he did — strolled with Tison over to the 
cabin, followed by three of us. 

" With the limited bunk space filled to overflowing 
with half-breeds, and the one table the cabin boasted, 
backed up against the wall, requisitioned as an im- 
promptu bed for two of the overflow, it only remained 
for Brewer and Tison to convert a bench into a joint 
seat and table, by sitting astride it, and shuffling and 
dealing on the bench space between them, tlie blaze 
of the fireplace their only light. 

" Tison had the courage of his convictions of his 
own skill, and proposed stakes that made Brewer hesi- 
tate, but, with a shrug and smile to us, he accepted 
and the game was on. 

" From the outset Brewer both outheld and out- 
played his opponent. Thus it was not long until he 
had won all the cash Tison was able to wager ; and 
when, about nine o'clock, I and my mates withdrew to 
camp, Tison had just wagered all the horses he 
owned, and Brewer had accepted the wager at such 
valuation as Tison saw fit to name. 
[20] 



A DESERT SPORT 

" About midnight Brewer entered our tent and 
j awakened us to say : 

" ' Boys, you can scarcely believe it, but I've won 
every last thing Old Man Tison possesses — money, 
spring, cabin, horses and cattle, squaw and half- 
breeds, down to and including the sucking papoose — 
and have given it all back to him! And when I told 
him I had no idea of accepting my winnings, and 
urged he should regard the evening as just a friendly 
game for fun, then he wanted to fight me " fer mak- 
in' a fool o' him." ' 

" Very shortly after sunrise the next morning, be- 
fore breakfast was ready, and even before some of the 
party were up. Old Man Tison made us another and 
last visit, his wicked gray eyes reddened and his face 
haggard from an evidently sleepless night, his hands 
stuck in his belt — the right dangerously near his gun, 
which we had sent back to him the previous evening, 
so near I noted Faro keenly watching his every move. 

" And when he spoke his tones were ominous ; his 
voice had lost its slow, soft drawl, and instead carried 
a crisp, smart, vibrant ring that spelled a mind alert 
and muscles tense. 

" ' 'Mo'nin', fellers,' he began ; ' pow'ful fine day 
fer travellin\ ain't it ? I 'lowed yu-all 'd be a hittin' o' 
th'trail'f ore this.?' 

[21] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" Faro indiscreetly observed that we were enjoy- 
ing ourselves so much we thought we might camp 
with him several days. 

" ' Hell yu do ! Want to be a rubbin' o' 't in, do 

yu? Well, by , I reckon yu won't! Th' handlin' 

o' my dog, 'n' th' ridin' my pinto, 'n' th' out-shootin' 
me was all on the squar' 'n' I has no roar t' make, 'n' 
makes none. 'N' so was th' beatin' o' me at seven-up 
on the squar', 's fer 's th' game went, 'n' the winnin' 
o' everything I got; but sence that thar solemncoly 
sky-pilot-lookin' feller rar'd up on his hind legs 'n' 
r'fused t' take his winnin's, a makin' o' me look like 
a hungry houn' pup, too pore t' take anytliin' from, 
my mind's dead sot yu-all come here 'special jes t' 
see how many different kinds o' a damn fool yu could 
make outen o' me, 'n' I 'm a gittin', gradu'lly, mos' 
terr'ble riled. 'Nless th' sky-pilot-lookin' feller takes 
't least th' squaw 'n' th' 'breeds, thar is shore t' be 
hell's own trouble ef yu-all don't pull yu'r freiglit 
pronto. Mebbeso I kin git t* hold out a hour more, 
but w'thin that time I'd shore admire t' see yu-all hit 
th' trail.' 

" And, out of consideration for Brewer, we packed 
and pulled out." 



[22] 



CHAPTER TWO 
THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

THE trials of a tenderfoot cowboy on the 
plains in the early '70s were only exceeded 
by the trials of such of them as survived 
their apprenticeship with enough hardihood left to 
become tenderfoot ranchmen. One not only caught 
it going and coming, but often got it hardest when 
neither going nor coming. And the harder one got 
it the greater the kindness to him ; if his metal 
rang true under test, the sooner was he accepted into 
the grim and more or less grizzled Order of Old 
Timers ; if it rang false, the quicker was he brought 
to a realisation that for him the plains offered little 
of opportunity save a chance to split the scenery 
along the shortest trail East. Neither breeding, 
brains, nor money counted among the nervy nomads 
of the range. It was make good or make tracks. 

And for the best man it was far from easy to 
make good. The sudden transition from the ease 
and luxuries of civilisation to the hard riding, hard 
[23] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

fare, and hard bed of a cowboy was trying, to say 
the least. 

At high noon of a beautiful June day, the Overland 
Express pulled nie into Cheyenne, Wyoming, and out 
of it I stepped into an atmosphere with a nip in it 
that set one's blood tingling like a glass of cham- 
pagne. Out of it I stepped, a youngster not yet of 
age, bent to be a cowboy. 

Before leaving the train, I had prudently strapped 
to my waist a new (how distressingly new) Ao Colt's 
six-shooter, that looked and felt a yard long. The one 
possession larger than this pistol that left the train 
with me was my desire to learn to use it, for I then 
suspected, and a few days later proved, that it was 
idle for me to hope to hit with it anything in the 
landscape smaller than the heavens above or the earth 
beneath me. In fact, for several months the safest 
thing in my neighbourhood was whatever I tried to 
shoot at with that pistol, safer even than I myself 
who held it ; for, until I learned its tricks, the recoil 
at each discharge gave me a smash in the forehead, 
from hammer or barrel, that made me wish I had been 
the target instead of the marksman. 

At the station I was met by dear old N. R. Davis, 
the hardest of taskmasters on a tenderfoot quitter, 
and the best of mentors and friends to a stayer. 
[24] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

While I brought a letter of commendation from 
his partner and my best friend, Clarence King, he 
could not help showing that I lacked his approval. 
Nor was he to be blamed. Two years before a tus- 
sle of several weeks with a brain fever, immediately 
succeeding six months of exceptionally hard work 
while in charge of the New York Tribune^s verbatim 
report of the Henry Ward Beecher trial, had left me 
very much of a physical wreck, and I dare say I 
looked to him better fit to hold down a hospital cot 
than to fork a cayuse. 

Then there was my regalia ! 

For my own condition doubtless he had a latent 
sympathy, but my rig incited his open resentment. 
The rig I had taken so much time in selecting and 
felt so proud of he quickly consigned to the scrap 
heap — lace boots, little knee leggings, short hunting 
spurs, little round soft hat; everything, indeed, but 
my pistol. And even the pistol had to be stripped of 
its flap holster and rehabited in the then new de- 
collete Olive scabbard. 

The early afternoon was spent in assembling a 
proper outfit. A bridle, forty-pound saddle, forty-foot 
rawhide lariat, California spurs with two-inch rowels 
and leather chaps that, when I got them on, felt like 
they weighed a ton, and made me look like I weighed 
[25] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

ten pounds, were bought at Frank Menea's ; a tar- 
paulin, a buffalo robe and two blankets for my camp 
bed, boots and a big hat John Harrington furnished. 

And then, fortified by two toddies at Luke Mur- 
rain's, which N. R. had evidently suggested from 
motives of sheer humanity, we climbed into his buck- 
board, forded Crow Creek, and bowled away south 
for his Owl Creek ranch, behind a span of half-broke 
half-breeds that spent as little time on the ground 
and as much up in the air as their harness handicap 
permitted. 

At that time N. R. had the finest horse ranch and 
best-bred horses in all Wyoming, a herd then headed 
by the famous old thoroughbred stallion Huerfano, 
loved the game of conquering and training them, and 
never drove a gentle pair if he could help it; hu- 
moured his mad pets when he could, rough handled 
them when he must to maintain mastery, and never 
was he happier than when, straining on the reins, 
before him plunged a savage pair, eyes bloodshot, 
lathered flanks heaving, tails switching, manes toss- 
ing, muscles surging, cruel heels flying toward his 
face, in a nip and tuck struggle where it was his 
neck and their freedom or their bondage and his 
mastery. 

There was little talk on the drive; the pair kept 
[26] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

him too busy, and concern about what part of my 
anatomy might first hit the ground kept me think- 
ing. Half way or more out he spoke: 

" Wonder if Kingy had it in for you or me, letting 
you come out here? I guess for both of us — thought 
we'd both be sure to get it, but mind, I'm not going 
to favour you. You've got to take your medicine with 
Con Humphrey's outfit, and he's about as tough a 
rawhide as ever led a circle. But he always gets 
there, and that's the only reason I keep him. It's lay 
close to old Con's flank, Kid, and keep your end up or 
turn in your string of horses. On the round-up no 
soldiering goes ; sick or well, it's hit yourself in the 
flank with your hat and keep up with the bunch or be 
set afoot to pack your saddle ; there's no room in the 
chuck wagon for a quitter's blankets, and no time to 
close herd sick ones. So for Heaven's sake don't start 
out unless you have the guts to stand it." 

While far short of encouraging, it was, neverthe- 
less, plain that N. R.'s every word was conceived in 
kindness. So I simply answered that while I would of 
course prove unhandy at the new work, he could rely 
that the moment I found I could not keep out of the 
way of the experienced punchers, I would myself want 
to turn in my horses and quit the outfit. Then he re- 
sumed : 

[27] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" I'm tally-branding this summer, making a tally 
or inventory of all our cattle and horses for an ac- 
counting and settlement with my partners. The cor- 
rals are full of cattle it will take all day to-morrow 
to run through the chutes and hair-brand. The next 
morning Con starts his outfit down Willow to round 
up the Pawnee Butte country. I'll pass you up to Con 
to-night, and what he makes of the new hand will de- 
pend on what he finds In it. We'll dump your blankets 
and tricks at the chuck wagon, and you can make 
down among the boys. Earlier you start the sooner 
you'll learn — and that, I guess, is what you're here 
for. Don't mind the boys. They'll rough you a lot, 
but most of it will be good-humoured. If any get 
ugly, you'll have to call them down, that's all." 

A little after dark we reached the ranch, a big, 
comfortable frame house with wide piazzas, through 
whose windows I caught glimpses of snowy linen 
and gleaming silver and cut glass in a cheerful din- 
ing-room, that made a picture of comfort and luxury, 
and told a story of generous feeding, that for the 
next thirty days was seldom long out of my mind. 

At the back of the handsome ranch house stood a 
little log cabin, now the winter home of N. D. (the 
Davis brand) punchers, that told of humble begin- 
nings five years before. 

[28] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

A few hundred feet south of the house stood the 
stables, and near these a bunch of great corrals, 
built of " grout " — solid walls of mortar and gravel. 

This was all — no pasture, no fences, just the 
broad prairies rolling away in all directions to the 
horizon. 

Past ranch and corrals tinkled Owl Creek, a little 
brook one could step across, that struck me as the 
most pathetic bit of water I then had ever seen. Born 
of a tiny spring that feebly pushed its way into the 
sunlight from beneath a low bluff a scant half mile 
west of the ranch, a spring bubbling with the mirth 
and singing with the joy of release from its subter- 
ranean prison, happy in the generous bounty it had 
to bestow upon this arid land, wondering, like any 
other young thing, what lay beyond its horizon, and 
eager to hurry on and see, the last precious drops of 
Owl Creek's sweet waters were soon greedily drunk 
by the thirsting plains,- gone back into INIother 
Earth's deep bosom whence they had so recently 
come, and its career ended, a scant half mile east 
of the ranch! 

There was so much Owl Spring wanted to do, and 

so little it did. It slaked the thirst of a few men and 

beasts ; one slender cottonwood, frail as the mother 

that fed it, bent affectionately over the spring; two 

[29] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

narrow ribbons of juicy green grasses owed life to 
the spring and followed it faithfully to its end: that 
was all. 

Forever shut within its narrow horizon though 
Owl Spring was, fated never to know fellow waters 
and merrily to wander with them out into the world, 
nevertheless it was spared all contamination and was 
privileged to sink to its last rest as clean and pure 
as when its first rippling smile received the sun's first 
kiss. 

A merry fire blazed at the tail end of the chuck 
wagon. About it were sitting sixteen punchers, feed- 
ing from tin plates and cups, gorging on beans, beef, 
and baking-powder biscuits, washed down with coffee 
strong enough to float an egg, men with the ferocious 
hunger of the wolf, and the case-hardened stomach 
of the ostrich. They were of all ages from sixteen to 
sixty, but most of them under thirty, all grimy with 
the dust, and several reeking with the blood of the 
day's work in the corrals. 

It was plain I was downright welcome to the bunch, 
but in a way that boded anything but good for mc. 
While no life of greater privation and hardship than 
the cowboy's ever existed, unless that in the forecastle 
of a wind jammer, no merrier, jollier lot ever lived, 
always "joshing" each other, turning a jest on 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

every condition in life, from the cradle to the grave, 
but one — home and mammy, a subject on which tones 
always lowered, eyes softened and sometimes grew 
misty. 

A glance about the circle explained the warmth of 
my welcome. I was the only tenderfoot in camp ! Thus 
the odds were sixteen to one. I was in for trouble, and 
it was not long coming. 

I nearly stalled at the rude fare, and ate little. 

" Kid," drawled Tobacco Jake, " ef you reckons 
to tote that full grown gun all day to-morrow, yu 
better ile yer jints with sow belly an' fill up all th' 
holler places inside yu with beans an' biscuit; yu 
shore look like yu hadn't had no man's grub in a 
month." 

I replied I had been something of an invalid, and 
that it was true my physical condition was hardly up 
to par. 

" Look yere, Kid," replied Jake, " ef yu caint talk 
our langwidge, you jus make signs. What'n hell yu 
tryin' to say, anyway ? " 

Before I could reply, Jack Talbot cut in : 

" He shore do look like a doggie " (a motherless 

calf) " 't haint got used t' eatin' grass. Gee, but 

won't the beans rattle in his craw when he climbs his 

first bronc! 'Bout two jumps an' a twist an' I allow 

[31] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

he'll jes nachally fall t' pieces, 'n' we'll have t' bunch 
th' r^-mains in a war sack 'n' send 'em t' his ma." 

" Bet you my gun agin yer silver trimmed spade 
bit th' fust jump fetches him, an' it's us t' pick up th' 
chips," cheerfully suggested Jake. 

" Wouldn't let him fork one o' my top cutters 
bareback fer nuthin'," was the pleasantly impersonal 
comment of Llano Lew, " he's so ga'nted up an' thin 
he'd give it worse saddle galls than airy ole horse- 
eatin' Mexico tree 't ever crossed th' Rio Grand." 

Another happy thought struck Jake, and out it 
came: 

" Say, fellers, I allow his folks w'd sort a like to 
plant him in th' fam'ly stiff lot, but they shore won't 
be willin' to be set back much payin' freight on his 
busted carcass. Le's see ef we-uns caint he'p 'em out. 
When he do come apart, le's see ef we caint load him 
in his own gun — looks like he'd jes about chamber in 
her — 'n' jes nachally shoot him back whar he cum 
from, 'n' save um th' ^a:-press price." 

These were only a few of the more refined and 
agreeable sallies that greeted me my first evening in 
cow camp. In fact, I was beginning to get pretty hot 
in the collar, when at length a friendly voice spoke, 
that of Tex, a man I soon learned to trust, and later 
to love, who through many years stood as steadfastly 
[32] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

my friend as on this night of the little tenderfoot's 
first trials. 

"Fellers," he quietly observed, "jest shet y'r 
yawp, pronto! Let the kid alone — it's me sayin' it. 
Course he ain't goin' to keep up with no leaders on 
th' circle, but I've got a fool idee he won't be so fer 
behind we'll lose him none." 

I was the subject of no more open comments that 
night, but until the last pair were asleep there were 
whispers and snickers that left no doubt they were 
still having their fun at my expense. 

By dawn the next morning we were routed out by 
the cook, and by good sun-up had finished breakfast 
and were in the corrals for the day's work at tally- 
branding. 

The great pens were filled with wild range cattle, 
the gather of the last round-up, old and young. The 
golden duns, pale yellows, light reds and piebald 
black and whites, all with great, wide-spreading 
horns, characteristic of the old Spanish stock of 
southern Texas, predominated, with here and there 
the short horns, dark red and greater bulk of a Dur- 
ham cross, the bald face of a Hereford, or the horn- 
less head and solid black colour of a Polled Angus. 

And wild indeed they were, looked and acted it — • 
eyes blazing, horns shaking threateningly, surging 
[33] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

back and forth across the corral, sometimes in solid 
mass, an irresistible tide stopped only by the heavy 
walls of the pen, sometimes moving in winding coun- 
ter currents like the waters of an eddy, bulls bellow- 
ing, cows lowing, steers snorting, calves " blatting," 
a mass of colour shifting and brilliant as any ever 
seen in a kaleidoscope. 

And into this sea of tossing horns it was ours to 
jump and work all day — on foot! 

And jump it was all day, and keep your eyes about. 

A fire was quickly lighted, and the branding-irons 
laid in it, heating for their cruel task. 

Along one side of the corral ran a narrow chute 
long enough to hold twenty animals, standing heads 
to tails, the outer end opening on the prairie, the in- 
ner on a close-pen thirty feet in diameter. 

This close-pen was filled with cattle from the main 
corral, driven in by the dismounted punchers, yelling 
and swinging clubs or anything we could lay our 
hands on. 

Then from this pen the chute was filled, the rear 
end barred, and in five minutes two or three men 
handling the irons had lightly hair-branded the im- 
prisoned beasts, the outer gate was opened, and they 
were released, bounding out to freedom, bawling from 
the pain of the iron. 

[3^] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

And, bar an hour for dinner at mid-day, so this 
round was repeated till nearly dark, when the corrals 
were emptied. 

While no work could be harder, and few tasks in- 
volve less of ever-present momentary peril to limb or 
life, while the foreman was a mean, ill-natured brute, 
often needlessly exacting, cursing at a moment's 
pause in the work, and cordially hated by all, while 
begrimed and often half-blinded by dust and smoke 
and sweat, never have I seen schoolboys merrier at 
their play, fuller of jests, pranks, and rough horse 
play than were these cow-punchers at their work. 

In mid-afternoon my friend. Tobacco Jake, near 
met his finish. While working over the chute, a great 
bull made a savage dig at him, the dull, rounded 
point of one horn landing on Jake's jaw, fracturing 
it and laying him out so stiff we thought for some 
time he was surely done for. 

The trend of sympathy was expressed by Llano 
Lew: 

" Pow'ful hard luck on Jake, bustin' his talk box. 
Reckon he'd ruther stay daid 'n' come to ef he knowed 
it. 'N' ef he do stay daid, he shore won't make no 

very d d sociable ghost, onless he meets up with 

sperits 't knows Injun sign-talk." 

All day long I had been getting a continuous 
[35] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" joshing " — mock sympathy for my weakness and 
feigned anxiety for my safety : if an angry beast 
charged my way, one or more of the boys would push 
me aside and take my place, while others strove to 
turn the charge ; when it came in my way to pick up 
anything from the ground, no matter how insignifi- 
cantly small and light, one or more pair of hands 
were instantly reached out to help me lift it, and 
when my face was observed streaming with sweat, 
one or another would solicitously try to wipe it with 
the slack of a loose bandana neckerchief. 

By evening my amour propre was downright raw, 
and I was resolved to make the first play that offered 
to lift myself in my mates' esteem. Just at the close of 
the day's work the chance came. 

As, through the late afternoon, the numbers in the 
main corral rapidly dwindled until few were left, with 
more room to run, and evidently made nervous by 
watching the mass of the herd streaming through the 
chute to the liberty of the open range, those remain- 
ing became more and more restive, and, as the boys 
put it, " /lowtilc." One in particular, a lean, active 
white two-year-old heifer, the foreman had seriously 
warned all of us to watch carefully. 

And when at length wc sought to drive the last 
little lot of them into the close-pen, all entered safely, 
[36] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

after two or three trials, except this white heifer, 
which charged back through our yelhng, arm-swing- 
ing Hnc of punchers, that quickly broke to right and 
left at her approach, many not stopping short of the 
top of the fence, a proceeding that struck me as 
wholly undignified. It also seemed unnecessary, for 
each swung in his hands a stout club of some sort, 
heavy enough to stun or turn her, if rightly landed. 

My hand weapon was a straight-blade, short- 
handled spade, and I quickly formed what seemed to 
me the sound piece of strategy of awaiting her 
charge (if she came at me) until the last second, and 
then leaping aside and dropping her with a blow be- 
tween the horns. Run from her I resolved I would 
not. 

Repeatedly we lined up and crowded her up to the 
gate, where she would stand an instant, angrily lash- 
ing her tail, and then whirl and charge, the boys 
scattering out of her course. 

Presently I got what — I had thought — I wanted; 
she charged me straight. 

Quickly swinging the spade over my shoulder for 
the blow, and shifting my feet slightly in a gather 
for the leap aside, I slipped on the now muddy ground 
and fell flat on my back, dropping the spade in the 
effort to recover myself! 

[37] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

And no more was I down than the heifer was upon 
me, head lowered and sharp horns pointed for the 
coup de mort of her race. But, surprised by my fall, 
she braced her forefeet when a little distance from 
me, and literally slid through the mud up to me till 
her two hoofs gave me a pretty good dig in the ribs, 
then backed away two or three feet, then nuzzled my 
body and face in inquiry and lightly prodded me 
with her horns for any sign of life. Lying motionless, 
through half-closed lids I plainly saw the fury in her 
eyes soften with wonder and curiosity however I could 
have gone dead so quickly — and then she lightly 
leaped across my body and was gone ! 

And nobody called me slow in reaching and mount- 
ing to the security of the nearest fence top ! 

It all happened so quickly I actually hadn't time 
to get scared or even nervous until after it was all 
over — and such as I then felt the boys quickly 
knocked out of me with their jests. 

" Hoot ! lad," called Red Cameron, tlie cook, " but 
Auld Hornie nigh got ye the whiles, hot off the eend 
o' his own kind o' weepons. Gi'n ye had as muckle 
sense as luck, ye'd get yer eemortality in this wurrld, 
by livin' forever ! " 

Then Llano Lew : 

" Mama ! but who'd a thot th' kid was locoed 
[38] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

enough t' tackle a fightin' heifer afoot? His thinker 
must shore be as puny as his carcass. Ain't nuthin' 
but him 'tween th' two Plattes fool enough t' tackle 
thataway a lightweight two-year-old hell bent fer 

trouble, like Miss Blanco thar. D d ef we don't 

have t' neck him t' th' cook t' keep 'im from killin' his 
fool self 'fore we hits the Pawnee." 

And again good old Tex to my aid : 

" You jes tighten th' latigo on that jaw o' yourn. 
'Pears t' me like th' kid's got a tol'able heavy jag o' 
sand mixt with his loco, uv a brand a hell uv a sight 
bctter'n yourn, Lew. Better see ef ye caint git to 
trade him some o' yer tongue ile fer some o' his sand. 

D d ef I don't think he's got right smart t' 

spare, 'n' still stack up with airy puncher in th' 
pen." 

A kindly sentiment that won some adherents in the 
bunch, as shown by some awkward but friendly ad- 
vances. 

That night beans and biscuit tasted good to me, 
and the lumpy mattress of buffalo grass felt better. 

The next morning I turned out rather stiff from 
my first day's work, and a bit sore from Miss Blanco's 
hoofs and horns, but otherwise fit as a fiddle. 

Breakfast over, in twenty minutes camp kettles, 
war sacks and beds were loaded into the chuck wagon, 
[39] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

horses caught and saddled, and we were mounted and 
headed southeast for Willow Creek. 

N. R. had assigned me a string of five horses, all 
kind and gentle, and unusually good ones, I later real- 
ised, to intrust to a tenderfoot. 

Average hands were never assigned less than four 
horses each for range round-up work, and top hands 
who had the heavy work of " cutting " the round-ups, 
separating the cattle wanted from those not wanted, 
rarely less than seven or eight horses. And there were 
never too many horses, seldom enough. Lacking corn 
and all other fodder but the native grasses, it was 
only by frequent change of mounts and long intervals 
of rest for each that they could be kept in fair flesh, 
strong of wind and limb and sound of back. In the 
saddle from dawn to dark, and then riding a two to 
three hours' turn at night guard round the herd in 
hand, fifty to seventy miles a day was no more than 
an average distance daily covered by the average 
cowboy on the round-up ; and throughout a third to 
sometimes more than half the day the pace was the 
ponies' top speed, handling and turning wild cattle 
bent on escape. 

Thus by the noon finish of a morning circle sides 
were lathered, flanks drawn, strength and wind gone, 
and fresh mounts necessary, while during the after- 
[40] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

noon's work of " cutting " the herd, the pace was so 
kilHng for the top cutters, with the terrible shock of 
sudden sharp turns and short stops, that one or two 
changes were ahvays desirable. 

This first day in the saddle on the open range was 
a tough one on the tenderfoot. The easiest saddle on 
the rider in the world once you are used to it, the cow 
saddle is far harder to get on comfortable terms with 
than the flat pigskin : it gives a beginner harder 
cramps and tenderer spots in more parts of the anat- 
omy than any punishment conceivable short of an in- 
quisition rack. Thus by midday every part of me 
ached cruelly, and by night I was so stiff and numb 
that, when dismounted, every step was agony. 

And by that time I had acquired an even greater 
mental than bodily agony. The plains through which 
we rode were simply alive with great rattlesnakes, 
some coiled comfortably beneath the shade of a 
greasewood or prickly pear, some stretched lazily in 
the sun, some crawling about, all alert for mischief, 
quick to coil, rattle and strike at whatever ap- 
proached them, forked tongues thrusting maliciously, 
poison fangs gleaming like two miniature cimeters. 

All day long we were scarcely ever ten minutes out 
of sight of them. 

How any living thing contrived to exist within 
[41] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

reach of those thousands of ever-ready envenomed 
fangs was past understanding. 

To ride among them was bad enough, but nothing 
to the horror of dismounting among them, while the 
thought of lying down in one's blankets at night 
within their jealously held territory was too hideous 
a hazard to contemplate. 

And all day long, when not too busy roasting my 
seat in the saddle, the boys were spinning to each 
other yarns, conceived for the occasion, of a mate 
awakened to find a rattler coiled upon his breast, of 
another bitten from beneath the ambush of a shrub 
when bending to picket his horse, of yet another slip- 
ping into a cave alive with them — each dying, of 
course, in tortures painted as fearsomely as they 
knew. 

Indeed, the active actual peril from the rattlers 
was at noon emphasised. When, our dinner finished, 
Nigger Dick, the horse wrangler, brought in the loose 
horses to the waggon, some one noted him sucking his 
thumb and asked him what was the matter. 

" Done got stung by Br'er Rattler ! Seed a li'l 
young cottontail an' allowed I c'd cotch him, but 
hit done run me ober de prickly pears 'n' 'roun' 
greasewood patches twell my ole tongue wuz haingin' 
out, 'n' then hit up 'n' duv inta a hole jes es I wuz 
[42] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

goin' t' drap on hit. Yassa, I was sho' clus atop o' 
Br'er Rabbit, so clus I runs my fool nigga airm inta 
de hole, spectin' t' get hit's hind paws, but staid o' 
that, Br'er Rattler what was lay in' thar, jes riz up 
f m his noon ear-poundin', 'n' pow'ful mad at Br'er 
Rabbit fer kickin' him in de haid, he jes nails me good 
on de fo' paw, 'n' when I jerks away, out paht way he 
comes twell one o' his old toofs slips out 'n' th' otha 
one she jes bruck off 'n' stay stickin' in Dick's fumb. 
But I shore dug him out 'n' bruck him apaht, 'foh I 
quit ! 'N' all de time, I 'lows, Br'er Rabbit wuz sittin' 
deepa down de hole alafin' at Dick. Hell! but hit do 
hu't ! " 

And indeed his hand and arm were already badly 
swollen. Promptly one of the boys drew the bullet 
from a pistol cartridge, took a knife and deeply 
gashed, almost hashed, the thumb all about the two 
tiny punctures, then poured the powder over the 
wound and fired it with a match ! A crude method of 
cauterising, it certainly seemed effective. Anyway, 
whether due to Dick's sucking his thumb or to the 
rude cowboy surgery, the inflammation went no 
further and Dick made a quick recovery. 

That night it took more nerve to lie down in my 
blankets in rattler land than I had needed the day 
before to face Miss Blanco! 
[43] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

But as matter of fact, as I later learned — so 
much later it did me no good on this trip — rat- 
tlers are never night prowlers on the plains, and 
" hole up " so soon as the chill of night comes on ; 
and indeed now, after years on the range, Dick 
remains the only man I ever personally knew bitten 
by a rattler. 

On this rodeo we were out about a month, round- 
ing up first the Crow Creek and Pawnee Butte coun- 
try, thence swinging up the South Platte River to 
Fremont's Orchard, thence to the sink of Willow 
Creek and up Willow toward the home ranch. 

The first forty-eight hours I developed an appetite 
and a capacity for sleep never known before. 

In a week I was fairly hardened to sixteen to 
eighteen hours a day in the saddle, most of the time 
on the jump. 

In a fortnight I had accomplished a modest but 
certain entry into the mysteries of brands, ear-marks, 
" dulaps," " wattles," etc. 

At the end of three weeks I could pitch and swing 
a riata tolerably, and, notwithstanding sundry more 
or less hard falls incident to unwary steps in prairie 
dog holes, running over calves, cowboy's tricks, etc., 
had acquired a four-year-old, full-grown faith in my 
saddle seat. 

[44] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

And it was precisely for this latter I had 
been waiting and working hardest. For the boys' 
" joshing " never ceased — I was too good a tiling 
to miss. 

The favourite subject of their jests and tricks was 
my early awkwardness and insecurity in the saddle, 
a fact they easily proved by the simple experiment 
of sticking a prickly pear bulb beneath my horse's 
tail after I had mounted. While, of course, the trick 
was always played behind my back, I was never long 
in discovering it. Instantly the horse began bucking 
furiously to lose the pear, and always finished by los- 
ing me first. As a " pear buster " I was a dismal 
failure, but as a side-splitter for the boys I was a 
howling success. 

But all the time I was learning more of the knee 
and lower leg grip, the balance and " swing " need- 
ful to keep rider and bucker from parting company — • 
till presently one day, early the fourth week, I re- 
solved to make a play that, win or lose, could not fail 
to largely stop the galling chaff I was getting so 
tired of. 

An " outlaw " is a horse fuller of years than hon- 
ours, spoiled by needless cruelty in the earl}' break- 
ing, spoiled so completely that he is " bad " to the end 
of his days, either as bucker, kicker, striker, biter, 
[45] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

backfaller, etc., and usually master of all these ac- 
complishments, a fighter in one or all of these ways 
every time he is saddled. 

" Walkingbars " was freely conceded to be the 
worst outlaw in the N. D. outfit, a great yellow-eyed, 
Roman-nosed, ewe-necked, long-barrelled, heavy -quar- 
tered buckskin. Every trick of the evil equine " Walk- 
ingbars " knew, and he had the power to do these 
tricks longer and harder than any horse I have ever 
since seen. 

When " Walkingbars " got down to earnest pitch- 
ing it seemed — and usually proved — as hard to stop 
him as to stay the mighty swing of a side-wheeler's 
walking-beam — and hence, I dare say, his name. 

" Walkingbars " was in the mount of a wiry 
little Mexican, Jose, who managed to handle him, 
but was tired of the task and constantly cursing 
him. 

I decided to add " Walkingbars " to my mount. 

He might and probably would do a lot of things 
to me, but nothing I dreaded more than " Tender- 
foot," and the chaff and tricks that went with the 
name, and it was to shake these annoyances at one 
stroke that, one morning on the circle, I proposed to 
trade Jose my top horse, " Goldie," for " Walking- 
bars." 

[46] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

" Madre de Dios! muchacho, he keela you, keela 
you sure ; but if you weesh, you heem have, y que Dios 
te aguarda! " 

So the trade was settled, Jose promising to say 
nothing of it to tlie boys. 

When, therefore, at the noon camp the horses were 
run into the rope pen, made of lariats outstretched 
from the chuck wagon wheels, and I pitched my rope 
over " Walkingbars's " head, and dragged him out 
of the bunch, there was a profound sensation. 

" Now, Tender," called Llano Lew, " yu shore ha' 
raised hell droppin' y'r string on ole 'Bars ! How'n 
hell yu reckon yu goin' t' git loose fore he cotches 
an' swallers yu.^* 'N' then how'n hell we-uns goin' t' 
get yu' pesky little pusson outen him ? " 

And all the time old " 'Bars " was surging on the 
rope and dragging me about, snorting, rearing, and 
striking. Just then I myself would have been glad to 
know of some way to get loose with some shred of 
dignity, but the play was made and had to be fin- 
ished. 

It took a lot of time and patience, and nearly wore 
me out, but finally I worked up the rope hand over 
hand until, dodging his strikes, I succeeded in slip- 
ping a half-hitch over his nose, and then there was 
another long tussle before I could approach him. 
[47] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

When at length I again got in arm's reach, I began 
gingerly to rub his nose, scratch his head, and pat 
his neck, and — wonder of wonders — he actually stood 
still, apparently in sheer astonishment to meet a 
puncher that neither yelled at, struck, nor jerked 
him! 

Presently I got a lump of sugar in his mouth — and 
then a second. It tasted good, and the wicked eyes 
glared less balefully, the nervous ears drooped lazily, 
the resentful muscles relaxed, and old " 'Bars " stood 
quietly at ease! 

Then I softly slipped my bridle from the back of 
my belt, slowly approached it to his head, gently, 
very gently, pressed the tongue of the bit into the 
side of his mouth, and he received it (along with an- 
other lump of sugar !), and a moment later I had the 
headstall over his ears. 

" Walkingbars " stood bridled, a trick never ac- 
complished by Jose himself, in the rough way he 
went at it, until after a hard ten to fifteen minutes' 
fight. 

And the explanation was easy. Old " 'Bars " was 
simply stunned with wonder to find a puncher who 
didn't try to jam his teeth down his throat with the 
cruel bit steel: why shouldn't he let such have his 
will.? 

[48] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

Then came the saddle, and it took a lot of diplo- 
macy and time to place and cinch it, for old " 'Bars " 
was handy with whirling kicks, one of which would 
cave one's chest in. 

Once during the saddling he came out of his trance 
and fought me, but with patience and more patting — 
and another lump of sugar — he was again quieted 
till the saddling was finished and I had him safely 
tied to a waggon wheel. 

Approval was frank and profanely emphatic. 

" Wal ! I'll be good to ," remarked 

Jack Talbot, " ef that don' beat th' Comanches. Th' 
kid shore must have pow'ful Injun medicine, 'ts too 
strong fer ole ' 'Bars.' I'd a neve' believed the' was 
airy puncher 'tween th' Gulf an' Canidy could bridle 
an' saddle ole ' 'Bars ' thataway, 'thout fitin' him all 
ove' a five-acre lot. 

" An' we be'n callin' of yu ' Tende ' ! 

" Ef yu was willin' t' shake with me, Mistah Kid, 
I would conside' hit a honou'," and we shook, " fo' yu 
shorely has a medicine bag fo' outlaws hid out about 
yu pusson that 'd make Jeff Gerry or th' Pinneos 
look like plough pushers. But, fo' th' love o' home an' 
mammy, yu don'' allow t' climb that ole yaller hell- 
twister, does yu? His naick's too long fo' yu t' get t' 
whispa' in his ea', like yu be'n doin', 'n' ef he forgits 
[49] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

th' purtys ju be'n promisin' him, yu can bet yu'r 
alee no roll, or stirrup tyin', or leather grabin' '11 
keep yu from gettin' throwed so fur it '11 take yu a 
week t' walk back to camp, ef yu has any sound bones 
left t' walk on." 

And when, a half hour later, I led out old " 'Bars," 
after first secretly slipping him yet another bit of 
sugar, while the boys sat their horses at a little dis- 
tance, coiled my rope and held the loose coils in my 
left hand, seized reins and headstall with the left, and 
gently bent old " 'Bars's " head toward me, and then 
caught stirrup, grabbed saddle-horn, and swung 
slowly into the saddle and quietly fastened my rope 
with the horn string, a wild yell of approval rose 
from the boys that was near being my undoing. 

Till it came " Walkingbars " had stood perfectly 
quiet, but a cowboy yell was old " 'Bars's " tocsin of 
war, and for a time it broke the spell of my " medi- 
cine," and came near smashing me. 

He lit into such bucking as I had never dreamed I 
could stand a second, but, hooking spurs in cinch and 
pulling leather ignominiously, I contrived to stay on 
him for perhaps a dozen jumps, when lo, a miracle! 
Suddenly he stopped stock still, bent his neck and 
gazed back in my face with a " that's-the-sugar-cup- 
and-I-better-not-break-it " look in his eyes. 
[50] 



THE MAKING OF A COWBOY 

And when I lightly shook the reins, he quietly 
trotted up to the waiting group of boys. 
As I joined them, I heard Tex remark: 
" Lew, does yu allow it's loco or sense an' sand th' 
Kid's sufferin' most from? " 



[51] 



CHAPTER THREE 

THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

A FTER the conquest — for the time being, at 

/_% least, complete — of " Walkingbars," the 

^ JIl worst outlaw bronco in the N. D. brand, I 

felt the crisis of my trials as a tenderfoot was passed. 

But this proved erroneous — widely. 

Most of the punchers hailed my success with 
" Walkingbars " with satisfaction, and showed 
me a cordiality that made me feel that I had at 
least one foot drawn out of the slough of tender- 
footdom. 

But one man seemed actually to resent my good 
fortune — the evil-tempered foreman. Con Hum- 
phreys. He may not have wanted me killed outright, 
but he certainly did seem to want to see me more or 
less maimed or disfigured. Indeed, the only thing that 
made at all endurable his general mental attitude 
toward the outfit at large and each puncher in par- 
ticular, was the fact that he seemed to hate himself 
quite as cordially as he did the rest of us. His was a 
[52] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

mirthless life, devoid even of any sense of pleasure 
except when engaged in inflicting some needless cru- 
elty he judged could not be resented. 

Already Humphreys had been stacking me up 
against the toughest and some of the riskiest tasks 
of round-up work ; tasks to try the skill and nerve of 
the oldest rawhide of them all; and when, as often 
happened, I acquitted myself none too well, he sneered 
at and abused me all he dared with a protege of his 
boss, N. R. 

The very morning after I first saddled and rode 
" Walkingbars," and it had begun to dawn upon his 
shrewd equine brain that it paid well to curb his 
savage temper and permit mastery to a puncher who 
handled him gently and spoke to him kindly, Con's 
malignant disposition cropped out anew. 

When out an hour from the lower Willow corral, 
the herd in hand strung out a mile or more along the 
winding trail up-stream, a many-tinted ribbon of 
bright colour moving ever forward across the endless 
rolling sea of pale yellow buffalo grass, seen upon the 
hillocks and disappearing in the swales, the little 
Mexican, Jose, rode back into the dense dust clouds 
at the rear of the herd, where, with two others, I was 
shouting and pounding along the " drags " — the 
lame, the lazy, the footsore, and the young — alto- 
[53] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

gether the rottenest task about a moving herd, and 
asked : 

" Keed, you see ol' ' 'Bars ' thees mornin'? " 

" No," I answered. 

" You go remouda looka heem ; I teks you place 
few meenits, latigando estos diablos de muertos/' 

So I loped over to the remouda a few hundred 
yards away, where the horse wrangler was slowly 
drifting and grazing his charges. 

As usual, old " 'Bars " was well out on the flank of 
the bunch, flocking by his lonesome. And it needed 
only a glance to note that his jacemo had been re- 
moved. 

The jacemo is a stout headstall made of horsehair, 
then always used in bronco breaking and handling, 
either instead of, or in connection with, a bridle. 
With only a riata loop about a bronco's neck he 
could drag one about corral or over prairie for half 
an hour before you could pretend to try to place a 
saddle, but with the end of a riata fastened to the loop 
of a jacemo's nose-band, every pull meant stronger 
smothering pressure over his nostrils, and he soon 
ceased steady heavy pull on the rope. 

Usually after a few days' handling the jacemo was 
no longer necessary with the average bronco, but 
with old " 'Bars " it could never be dispensed with. 

[ ''5^ ] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

Without one on his head it was utterly impossible 
to bridle and saddle him, and to put a jacemo on him 
needed that he be roped by the forelegs and thrown, 
and " hog-tied " — his four feet bunched and lashed 
fast together with half-hitches, helpless — a job evi- 
dently yet far beyond me. 

Who could have played me the foul trick of re- 
moving " 'Bars's " headstall I could not fancy — un- 
less Con himself. 

I hurried back to the " drags " and questioned 
Jose. He answered : 

" Inmediatamente bafo' we leev de camp, I see ese 
diablo Con cut heem off. Ef I you, I shoot hell out 
heem pronto an' go on scout. You say si, I halp you, 
me!" 

Jose meant it, every word, for he, next to me, had 
been most frequently a victim of Con's meanness. But 
I merely thanked him, asked him to keep my place 
with the drags till my return, and trotted forward 
where Tex rode in the lead swing, a couple of hun- 
dred yards behind Con's position on the left point of 
the herd. 

Good old Tex heard my story and my statement 
that I saw nothing for it but to call Con down or 
turn in my string of horses and quit the outfit, and 
then softly drawled: 

[55] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" Kid, it is shore up to yu t' go on th' prod. Horn 
him wi' th' meanest cuss words yu knows, 'specially 
'bout his closest kin folk, 'n' tell him if he monkeys 
wi' yu o' yu string agin yu'll hang his skelp on yu 
lodge pole. Ef he bats a eye o' makes airy move fo' 
his gun, git him, *n' do it pow'ful quick. Cou'se you 
caint shoot none sudden like him, so yu jes stay 's 
clus t' him 's if yu was sittin' up wi' yu best gal, 'n' 
th' fust move he makes yu jerks yu gun 'n' bends her 
good 'n' plenty ove' that misshaped co'kce'nut he 
we'as en place o' a haid, 'n' then yu bend her back 
straight wi' anotha lick. I'll sorta drift along afte' 
yu, 'thin easy gun range, 'n' ef he gets yu. Kid, it'll 
be th' last gun game he'll git th' ante in, 'n' then 
it'll be Tex fer th' scout. But we'll make her a squar' 
play ; I won't chip in 'fore yu're down." 

This cheering proposal was inspired in part, no 
doubt, by a growing friendship for me, but largely 
by a profound dislike for the foreman. 

I rode forward to Con. Hearing my approach, he 
looked back with an ugly scowl, and called : 

" What'n hell you doin' here, you or'nery kid ? 
Didn't I leave you along o' the drags 'n' doggies yu 
belongs with.'' " 

" Yes, Humphreys, you did," I replied, " and I'm 
ready to try to do my best at whatever job you put 
[56] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

me on, but I'm up here now to tell you you've got to 
quit your abuse; quit your tricks with my string of 
horses and limit your dealings with me to plain orders 
in the regular line of work." 

For a minute or two he was silent with astonish- 
ment. Then he burst out: 

" What'n damnation yu kickin' about now, 
yu " 

" Cut out the description or settle here, Con," I 
interrupted. " I specially refer to your cutting the 
jacemo off ' 'Bars ' this morning." 

" Huh! Did yu see it done? " 

" No, but others did," I answered. 

" Wal," he snarled, " whoever says I done it 's a 
d n liar." 

" You'll not tell Jose that," I suggested. 

He straightened in the saddle, shortened rein, 
tightened knee grip, and truculently growled: 

" Wal, s'pose I did, what'n hell you goin' to do 
about it.? Blat t' old N. R., I reckon! " 

" No, Con, nothing of the sort. You're going to 
order the men to throw ' 'Bars ' at the noon camp, 
and put on him a new jacemo, and you're going to 
settle with me for any new outrage you try to play ; 
it'll be just the two of us," and I lightly touched 
my spur to my pony's side, and moved him up 
[57] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

till my right knee was nearly touching his left, 
within the easy reach of his " cocoanut " as Tex 
had advised. 

For full two minutes, I should think, we sat gazing 
into each other's eyes, every muscle tense and sense 
alert, he studying whether to venture upon offence, 
I intent to draw and strike before he could draw and 
shoot. The position was perfect for my plan, for his 
head was defenceless against a blow except by re- 
leasing his bridle rein, leaving his horse momentarily 
unmanageable, or by spurring away from me, and 
against the latter move I was hedging by readiness 
to plunge my spurs into my horse's flank. 

A face fuller of malice and murder I never con- 
fronted; big-eared and peaked like a wolf's, but 
shifty-eyed and currish as a coyote, a face conveying 
no fear of a frontal attack, but promising large 
hazard of ambush ; the face of an assassin, but not of 
a fighter. 

Still the provocation, from his stand-point, was 
great, and had wrought in him a rage nigh impos- 
sible to curb. 

Presently the near-by neigh of a horse behind him 

caused him to quickly turn his head — to sec old Tex 

idly sitting his horse seventy-five yards away, his .44) 

Winchester plainly loosened, and partly drawn from 

[58] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

the scabbard, his right hand caressing the stock, ap- 
parently watching the moving herd, but at an angle 
that left us well within the tail of his eye. 

Instantly he realised Tex had either scented trouble 
or been told of it, and was there to pot him on the 
slightest excuse. 

Then the hard lines of his face relaxed, and, with a 
surly grin, he spoke: 

" Why, Kid, 'pears t' me yu're pow'ful het up 
over nothin'. 0' cou'se takin' off ' 'Bars's ' sombrero 
was part jest a joke 'n' part t' see ef yu couldn't put 
her back on agin wi' one o' them big medicine plays 
yu worked on "Bars' yestiddy. I 'lowed you'd admire 
a chanct t' put it all ove' th' boys by nachally talkin' 
ole ' 'Bars ' intu beggin' th' priv'lege o' wearin' a new 
bunnet. 0' cou'se ef yu 'lows yu medicine ain't that 

strong, we'll throw th' ole an' slap her on fer 

yu. 'N' as fer roughin' o' yu, why hell! ef yu had 
half th' sense yu 'pear t' pack 'n' that little nut o' 
yurn, yu'd see I ben tryin' Con's best t' give yu a 
show fer th' biggest punche' honahs 'n' t' make yu a 
top hand pronto. But it do shore look like yu don't 
'preciate it, leavin' th' drinks on Con 'n' th' chamber- 
in' o' them on yu ! Bet yur alee from now on yu can 
larn by yur lonesome, fir's I'm consarned." 

And he rode forward where, at his neglected 
[59] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" point," the herd was spreading out like a fan, con- 
tentedly grazing. 

I turned back toward the " drags " and Tex rode 
with me half-way down the long line of the herd. 

" Alius knew he was a coyote," commented Tex ; 
" throws too many John Branch ranicaboo bluffs o' 
his own t' call any one else's. He'll jest rar' up on his 
haind laigs 'n' come at yu wi' his mouth open like he 
were th' Whale 'n' yu Jonah, 'n' the fust flutter yu 
gives he shuts his face hard 'nough t' bust his nut 
crackers 'n' drops on all fou's 'n' scoots fer th' near- 
est bunch o' brush. T' hell wi' such flwimiles anyway ; 
they shore do make my — back tired ! " 

Thus relieved, Tex reined West and rode to his 
place in the " swing." 

When at the noon camp the horses were run into 
the ropes for catching the afternoon mounts, Con 
called : 

" Tex, drop yu twine on ' 'Bars,' 'n' Llano, 'n' 
Jack, yu-all he'p him throw 'n' tie * 'Bars ' 'n' git his 
haid intu my jacemo." 

Tex pitched his rope over " 'Bars's " head, snubbed 
the end of the rope about his own hips, and as 
" 'Bars " bounded out of the ropes, braced feet for- 
ward and body back for the tug. Notwithstanding 
the severe choking of the riata noose about his neck, 
[60] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

with all Tex's weight and strength straining at the 
other end of the rope, mad old " 'Bars " dragged his 
captor about the prairie at almost racing speed a 
good ten minutes before Llano could get within cast- 
ing reach to noose his forefeet. Then with a sharp 
pull to the left by Tex and to the right by Llano, 
down smash on his side fell the equine warrior, and 
before he could gather Tex had a knee on his neck, a 
hand smothering his nostrils, and his muzzle turned 
skyward, while Llano had thrown a quick half-hitch 
over his left hind foot, and drawn it up tightly 
against the noose that bound the forefeet. 

Still this left his good right hind leg free, and it 
swung with a ferocity and rapidity that looked like 
he had a score of hoofs free instead of one. Indeed, 
his tawny length was darkened by an aureole of flying 
black hoofs hovering above him. 

One stroke gave " 'Bars " joy — it caught Tex in 
the armpit and sent him sprawling, freeing the 
wicked old Roman-nosed head, and bringing new lust 
and hope of liberty into the blazing eyes. 

But rise he could not, with three feet tightly 
bound, and soon Talbot lit on his neck and again got 
his muzzle upturned. 

All the time Llano had been throwing half-hitches 
of his rope at the flying hoof, 
[61] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Presently one of Llano's throws landed, and a 
moment later " 'Bars " lay helpless " hog-tied," his 
four feet securely lashed together. 

Then the fastening the jacemo on his head was an 
easy task, so the vicious teeth were avoided. 

Released, old " 'Bars " shook himself, glared re- 
sentfully at his enemies, and trotted back into the 
remouda. 

Coiling his rope, Llano remarked: 

" I shore neve' see that much pizon 'n' hell wropped 
up in airy hoss hide befo'. ' 'Bars ' snaps like a 
'gaitor, springs like a ' painter,' 'n' strikes 'n' kicks 
laik his legs was driv' by a little ole steam injen in- 
siden him. 'N' his eyes ! Wal, damn his eyes ! I'd 
druther look intu th' talkin' end o' a gun than t' have 
ole ' 'Bars ' draw his eyes on me when he hits th' war 
path. Jest looks like he'd foller yu from Corpus t' 
Cheyenne t' git yu, 'thout slecpin' or grazin' on th' 
way, 'n' jest nachally eat yu op when eve' he cotched 
yu. Damn his old gory eyes anyway ! They shore do 
talk more war 'n' I kin use. Kid, yu is sutenly wel- 
come t' that ole yallcr hellion, 'n' if I was yu, I'd lope 
back t' Pawnee Butte, climb her 'n' sun dance thar 
fer a week tryin' t' fill my medicine bag wi' new tricks 
'fore I tackled ' 'Bars ' agin — 'n' then I'd jest jump 
off that east cliff ruther'n tackle him." 
[62] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

To give him time to cool off from the indignities 
put upon him, I waited a couple of days before ven- 
turing any new liberties with " Walkingbars." To 
the infinite surprise of the outfit, he proved still fair- 
ly amenable to kindness, and so he remained to the 
end of our association, bar an occasional exhibition 
of violence to leave it plain his comparative tractabil- 
ity was due to sufferance rather than to surrender. 

A few days later, when we were approaching the 
Owl Creek Ranch and Con realised it was nearing his 
last chance to get even, he took a final fall out of me, 
and it was a good one. 

One morning at breakfast he called across the camp 
fire: 

" Kid, th' ole man told me he wanted a good 
fresh milk cow soon's I c'd git her t' him. We're a 
week late now gittin' back, 'n' I reckon he's pow'ful 
hot 'cause he haint got her befo'. Yestiddy I threw 
out intu th' cut a shore dandy, three quarter short- 
horn, 'n' her calf — 'ts jest about what N. R. wants. 
When yu saddle up I'll cut th' pa'r out t' yu 'n' yu 
kin run 'em in t' th' home ranch — 'ts only twenty 
mile, 'n' if yur right peart yu kin run 'em in thar 
agin noon, 'n' git back t' camp t'night — caint he, 
boys ? " with a significant glance round the circle of 
punchers squatted at their breakfast. 
[63] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

I noted them look at each other in surprise, but 
for a long time none spoke. Presently, however, Llano 
blurted out: 

" By , Con, I'll bet yu my outfit, gun, saddle 

'n' tricks, agin yurn yu caint pick airy cow 'n' calf 
outen th' herd yu yu'sef, single-handed, kin keep 
bunched by ther lonesomes, outen th' thousands o' 
loose range cattle that make this plain look crowded 
as a bee tepee, an' keep anywhar near a course with 
'em fer five miles. Cow'd be sure t' break intu some o' 
th' loose bunches or get on th' prod 'n' stan' yu off, o' 
th' calf '11 play out 'n' go into camp while his mammy 
runs yu foot races try en' t' lose yu from th' calf. 
'Sides they's no trail from heah t' Owl Creek Ranch. 
All yu c'd do 'd be t' pint th' kid th' general direc- 
tion 'n' tell him t' chase his nose, 'n' what 'n hell's 
t' keep th' bead o' his tende'foot nose on old Owl 
Creek? He'd shore git lost so hard it'd keep all th' 
riders o' th' gineral South Platte round-up a circlin' 
a week t' git t' throw him intu th' bunch, 'n' by that 
time he'd be lean 'n' loony 's a sheep herder 'n' wild 's 
the old ' Black Stallion o' Chalk Bluffs '." 

Con scowled angrily at Llano and then said, with a 
poor attempt at an agreeable smile : 

" Kid, that freckled short-horn that miscalls his- 
self from Llano 's a short sport 'n' a long shot from 
[64] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

a real rawhide. He 'lows t' buffalo yu. They ain't airy 
shore 'nough rawhide in th' bunch as '11 say it caint be 
did, 'n' did easy," and he looked threateningly about 
the circle. " O' cou'se it'll keep yu humpin' yu'sef a 
few, but yu'll see th' end o' th' trail long 'fore night," 
and he must have added under his breath, any trail 
but the one to Owl Creek. " Llano, yu speckled ' dog- 
gie,' why d ^n yur fool soul, ef we didn't have this 

bunch o' cows under herd I'd jest call yer hand 'n' 
set yu afoot, fer I'd gamble all I got I c'd take my 
top cuttin' hoss 'n' run airy cow 'n' calf in the 
bunch intu th' Owl Creek pens 'thout reinin' or 
quirtin'." 

This settled the question for me. I knew the job 
was considered a deadly hard one by every man in 
camp, knew it by their very silence — proving it one 
of the few subjects too serious to talk and jest about 
— but jumped at it gladly as another opportunity 
in the struggle to lose my identity as a tenderfoot. 

While I was saddling my toughest horse, outside 
of " Walkingbars," whom I did not dare trust on 
such a trip, Tex strolled over for a friendly word : 

" Kid, Con's stacked yu up agin it good 'n' plenty 

this time. Th' range is black with L. F. 'n' N. D. cows 

every jump o' the way. Ef yu git t' pen that cow 'n' 

calf at Owl Creek it'U be one o' old Mahster's red- 

[65] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

hcadedest miracles, 'side which a feller a walkin' on 
water or a cliinbin outen th' belly o' a big fish 's easy 
's takin' yu mo'nin' coffee. But yu kin make a hell o' 

a stagger at it 'n' do yur d dest, 'n' yu might 

draw luck 'nough t' git thar ; ef yu do, thar ain't 
airy puncher 'tween Goliad 'n' Greeley but 'd admire 
t' throw in wi' yu as a expert rawhide, 'n' t' pump 
lead at any critter that says yu ain't straight off th' 
haid wate's o' Bitter Creek. 

" Th' main trick. Kid, 's t' keep her off th' prod 'n' 
sweet-tempered. Ef yu crowds her too hard 'n' gits 
her on th' fight, it's ' Katy bar th' door ' wi' yu, 'n' 
adios t' her 'n' her calf. Put in most o' yu time a 
shovin' th' loose range stock back away from yu, 'n' 
keep her a driftin' tow'rd Owl Creek so easy like she 
'lows she's goin' 'cause she jest nachally has im- 
po'tant bizness up thar she's bound t' 'tend t' he'se'f. 

" Two miles up Willow 's tli' uppe' pen, 'n' thar 
yu strikes off no'west. Our waggon sign comin' down 
'11 be all washed out by th' rains, but ef yu kin keep 
a no'west cou'se fo' fifteen miles yu'll hit th' west end 
o' th' Chalk Bluffs, wi' a lone butte a standin' out by 
hi'se'f, 'n' yu goes up ove' th' pass 'tween th' butte 
'iT th' main l)luffs, 'n' 't th' top o' th' pass yu kin 
see th' ranch three mile away. 

" Ef yu gets to th' east o' no'th hit'll take yu intu 
[G6J 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

deep bays o' th' bluff whar th' country's all standin' 
on aidge 'n' '11 stand yu on yu' haid. Ef yu b'ars too 
far west hit'll be lay out unde' yu saddle blanket, 
fo' yu an' keen sabe case whar yu brings up. Hit's 
fo'ty mile no'th to th' U. P., same west to th' D. P., 
fifty south to th' Platte, same east t' Crow Creek, 
wi' only one othe' ranch in the squar', Brewster's, so 
yu ain't liable to be crowded none, 'cept to know 
straight up from sideways. Ef yu gits plumb lost, 
jest git down, onsaddle 'n' rest 'n' graze yu' hoss 'n' 
study hit ove' plenty. Then pick a cou'se somewhars 
— anywhars — fork yu' cayuse 'n' keep goin' plumb 
straight twell yu runs up agin somethin' 'sides jest 
room t' ride in or meets up wi' somebody that's at 
hisse'f 'n' kin git down, 'n' make a map in th' sand 'n' 
show yu whar yu're at." 

And this was all Tex, or, indeed, anybody, could 
do for me. 

I mounted and rode out to the herd already string- 
ing out on the trail. 

While Con was riding up the line searching for 
the cow and calf he had selected, Jack Talbot rode 
up and observed: 

" Mistah Kid, I shore gits from unde' my hat to yu 
gall. Ole N. R. 'n' his'n could live on Owl milk twell 

th' hull d n fambly hooted every blamed time they 

[67] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

tried t' say somethin' 'fore I'd try t' run 'em a lone 
cow 'n' calf from Willow t' th' home ranch. Yu has 
my respcc's f o' li'tin' in t' do hit ; 'n' ef yu gits her 

thar, I'll make that d d or'nery Con Humphreys 

kill the biggest maverick in the bunch 'n* write yu 
on th' inside o' hit's hide, wi' waggon dope fo' ink 'n' 
his pinted ole nose fo' a pen, a full diplomi for bein' 
th' ring-tailedst puncher 'tween th' Brazos 'n' Bow 
River, shore's my daddy's name's Talbot." 

By the time Jack had finished his friendly remarks, 
Con had found the cow, cut her from the herd, and 
yelled to me to come and take her, which I did. She 
was a half-bred Durham, with the breadth and depth 
of quarter of the better breed, but the long, sharp 
horns of her Spanish ancestry, wild, like the rest, 
as a deer, and was followed by a calf, two or three 
weeks old. 

Keen to break back to the herd, she gave me a lively 
run to carry her past and beyond the point of the 
herd, but once ahead, I had comparatively easy going 
for two miles up Willow Valley, and two miles more 
out northwest from the upper pen, for the sun was 
scarcely a half-hour high, and the range cattle were 
still well out in the hills, feeding. 

I crowded her little as possible, both to avoid get- 
ting her on the figlit and to save the calf's strength, 
[68] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

for once the calf played out or the mother got on the 
prod, driving must cease. 

All about me lay the billowy plains, rising gently 
into tall, rounded yellow ridges, one like another as 
two peas, and then sinking into valleys, rising and 
sinking, ever rising and sinking. Indeed, the land- 
scape, look where one would, was devoid of helpful 
landmark of any description save the dark blue line, 
nearly a hundred miles west of me, that marked the 
great wall of the Rockies, with Pike's Peak its farthest 
visible buttress to the south, breaking down to more 
modest height north of Gray's Peak, and stretching 
away into the north till lost entirely to view behind 
distant swells of the plains. 

And even the Rockies helped me none in keeping 
my course, for north of Gray's Peak the visible reach 
of the range was, at my distance, without distinguish- 
ing uplift to help me steer by. 

About four miles out from camp and two north 
of the upper Willow corrals, my real troubles began, 
and they were real enough. The plains were alive, 
swarming everywhere with cattle, grazing singly and 
in groups, and the cow, which I was not long in dub- 
bing " Con's Revenge," broke at top speed in any 
and all directions that ranged widest from our proper 
route. She would dash off at top speed, a pace the 
[69] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

calf could not follow and that quickly distanced it, 
and it took near the best gait of my horse to head and 
turn her back, often to find the calf clumsily gallop- 
ing toward another (by this time) nearer bunch. 
Then the two had to be thrown together and turned 
away from the group the calf was nearing. 

By the time we were out about eight miles, as near 
as I could judge, from the pen, " Con's Revenge " 
had gotten tired down till her breaks were at a trot 
instead of a gallop, my horse was showing some dis- 
tress, and " JNIrs. Revenge " made two breaks to 
charge and chase me when I sought to turn her 
back. 

So, seeing there was nothing for it but patience 
and time, I swept out in a wide circle ahead, yelling 
and shooting, and scattering the range stock to right 
and left, and then wheeled back — only to see " Mrs. 
Revenge " trotting away toward Willow fast as the 
calf could follow, requiring another half-mile dash to 
overtake and turn her! 

And this wearing, heart-breaking work continued 
for hours, with occasional brief dismounts, to loosen 
my saddle, and cool and rest my horse when range 
cattle were at a safe distance, usually after one of 
n)y short runs to scatter them. 

I had hoped to sight the point of Chalk Bluffs be- 
[70] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

fore noon, but the day dragged on into mid-after- 
noon with naught but the swells and dips of the 
plains, and the distant blue line of the Rockies in 
sight. 

The keeping a course had been made all the more 
difficult by my constant dashes to right and left, 
stampeding away the range cattle, and by this time I 
hadn't the ghost of an idea of my real position, ex- 
cept that I felt sure I must have passed the bluff 
point too far south to see it. All certain was that I 
still had my charges safely in hand, now so leg-weary 
they were glad to rest when I had to leave them to 
clear the way, the cow so ill-tempered she often 
charged or stood and threatened me for five or ten 
minutes, eyes blazing, horns tossing. 

With night approaching, a storm coming rapidly 
down on me from the northeast, and my horse close 
to " dead on his legs," I decided to take a chance on 
my judgment, and swung my course, as well as I 
could, to the east of north. 

And lucky I was to make the shift, for in half an 
hour a great butte rose out of the plains a trifle to 
the right of my course. It did not look like the point 
of Chalk Bluffs to me, but it was something to cling 
to and I made for it. 

An hour later, in the very nick of time before a 
[71] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

heavy plunging rain came clown and shut out any 
distant view, off in the north, to the left of the butte, 
I saw a big ranch and corrals which must be N. R.'s. 
In the storm cow and calf became utterly unmanage- 
able, and two miles south of the ranch I left them 
and rode in, to make sure of cover before I lost my 
direction in the storm. 

As I neared the ranch the downpour ceased, and 
the sun came out, showing me good old N. R. him- 
self, comfortably settled in an easy chair on the 
porch. 

" Well, kid, where's the round-up? " was his greet- 
ing. 

" Camped to-night at the Upper Willow pen," I 
replied. 

" Well, what are you doing away from it.'' Come a 
little too tough and turned in your string of horses 
and quit ? " he asked. 

" No ; Con started me at sun-up this morning to 
drive you in a milk cow and calf," I answered. 

" Started you alone to drive a wild cow and calf 

twenty miles through range cattle? The h he 

did ! Wonder if he was mad or crazy. Well, where is 
she, anyhow? " he snapped. 

" Two miles south of the ranch I left her in the 
storm and came in," I said. 

[72] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S TRIALS 

" Oh, you did ! Well, your orders were to bring 
her here, were they not? " 

" Yes." 

" Well, I guess you better get her." 

" Give me a fresh horse and I will — mine's dead on 
its legs." 

" Should think he'd be dead all over ; you can rope 
any you like out of the pen." 

A few minutes later I loped away south on a fresh 
mount, had the luck to find my charges, somewhat 
cooled off by the storm and rested, and drifting them 
on slowly and gently, succeeded in safely penning 
them just at sunset ; they were so worn and tired they 
marched up to and through the corral gate like a 
bunch of wild horses after a " nine-day walk-down." 

As I was unsaddling, N. R. strolled up and ob- 
served : 

" Kid, you've sure won puncher spurs to-day." 

And that night I dined luxuriously at the big 
ranch house table. 



[73] 



CHAPTER FOUR 
THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

THE first herd I bouglit and decorated with 
the Three Crow brand, with a " crop " of 
the right and " under half crop " of the left 
as an earmark, brought me so many anxieties that 
matured into full-grown troubles and so many trou- 
bles that developed anxieties that I am not likely 
ever to forget it. 

And yet the herd was not a big one ; in fact, it was 
so small and punchers' wages were so high for an 
outfit going north into the Indian country that I cut 
expenses by dispensing with the hiring of a foreman 
and undertaking to run the outfit myself. 

For an outfit of thoroughbred Texas brush-split- 
ters a tenderfoot owner was bad enough, always the 
object of ill-concealed distrust and contempt, and 
only endurable so long as the pay was sure and 
mounts plenty and sound, while a tenderfoot fore- 
man was nothing short of a downright humiliation, 
his simplest orders a personal affront hard for these 
[74] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

sturdy, masterful experts at their hazardous calling 
to keep from resenting. 

Indeed, even old political lines were a fruitful source 
of dislike and ill-will for the tenderfoot — who was 
nearly always a Northerner, while all the best punch- 
ers were Texans, the elders themselves ex-Confed- 
erate soldiers, the younger sons of Wearers of the 
Gray, men in whose honest partisan hearts still 
glowed bright the embers of the flame of Civil War 
that a decade before had swept their well-beloved 
South and left it prostrate. 

It was, therefore, little to be wondered at that 
" a blue-bellied Yankee kid " had little of their liking 
for his personality and less of their respect for what 
he knew. 

In fact, I doubt if I ever should have succeeded in 
persuading an outfit of real rawhides to ride out 
under my leadership but for dear old Tex, who had 
quit the N. D. outfit to follow me. 

Tex put the situation and the temper of the men 
better than I have when he said : 

" or Man " — though only twenty, I became " th' 
ol' man " as soon as I started in to hire an outfit — 
" yu see it's thisaway. Cow punchin' 's a pr'fession 
no feller ever'll live long enough t' git t' know th' 
hull way from hoofs t' horns. 
[75] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" Th' oldest rawhide Hvin', one that rid a runnin' 
iron fo' a hobby-hoss, wi' a rawhide hobble fo' a 
bridle, 'fore he was big enough t' fork a pony, 'n' was 
bornded wi' cow sense from his daddy, 'n' was throw- 
in' strings at th' cat 'fore he could swing a rope, has 
t' cash in his last stack o' breath, 'n' turn into buz- 
zard feed 'thout learnin' all th' meanness plannin' 
below th' horn wrinkles 'v a moss-back. 

" As fo' cayuses, t' say nothin' o' spoiled outlaws, 
thar ain't airy buster from th' Brazos kin tell what 
new bunch o' hell thet/^re goin' t' hand him, o' whether 
she's comin' from th' front o' th' stern end. 

" 'N' when yu gits t' handlin' 'v 'em in big bunches, 
cows o' cayuses, ol' Mahste' hisse'f even caint sorta 
reckon what they'll up 'n' do. 

" So you see, 01' ]\Ian, it's jest nachally mos' pow'- 
ful hard fo' a bunch o' long-horn rawhides like we-all 
t' git t' see how 'n hell a short-horn, stall-fed Yankee 
like yu-all, that don't know mesquite from zacaton o' 
sweetbreads from kidney fat, 's a goin' t' git t' handle 
a cow outfit anywheres, 'specially up in th' Injun 
country — 'n' them red jaspers 's a harder bunch t' 
git t' sabe than cows o' cayuses! 

" 'Pears t' we-all like it'll be nigh hell fo' yu-all 
'n' phnnh hell for wc-all — yu-all a strainin' o' yu in- 
tellcc' tryin' t' give orders 'bout work you don't sabe, 
[76] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

'n' we-all a hustin* o' ourn tryin' t' sahe what yu-all's 
tryin' t' git out o' yu haid ! 

" But she's a go, all th' same ! I got a bunch o' 
ivory-handled red-sashers as '11 shore start out — 'n' '11 
stay ef they kin git t' stand her. 

" How 'd I git 'em? Why, jest tellin' 'v 'em what 
yu done wi' that old hellion o' a outlaw, ' Walking- 
bars,' 't nobody else could handle 'thout nigh killin' 
him, 'n' how yu, single-handed, driv' th' lone cow 'n' 
calf twenty mile through th' heart o' th' Iliff ran •■ > 
t' Owl Creek. 

" When I got done, th' boys they 'llowed yu was 
packin' a pow'ful heavy jag o' gall o' luck, o' Injun 
medicine, they couldn't make out which, 'n' they jest 
nachally figured 't either one might do, 'n' 't they'd 
take a chanct that she'd hold out 'n' stay wi' yu. That 
feller Cress he'ped by him sayin' yu shore must have 
some hoss sense 'n' a leetle smatterin' o' cow sense. 

" So, or INIan, she's a go ! " 

And Tex drew a deep breath and leaned heavily up- 
on the polished walnut of George Masten's bar, weak, 
limp, exhausted from the sudden loss, in a few min- 
utes, of more language than he usually gave up in a 
month. 

The getting my money's worth in the purchase of 
a herd was a most difficult task. 
[77] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Of relative values of cattle and horses I knew liter- 
ally nothing, and prices varied with the breed, quality, 
age and condition ; the cheapest, the gaunt, leggy, 
wild long-horn stock of straight Spanish breed come 
out of the chapparal along the lower reaches of the 
Rio Grande ; the dearest, the thick-loined, deep-quar- 
tered, dark red half-breed short-horn Oregonians, 
descended from some of the best Missouri and IIU- 
nois strains, trailed by emigrants across the plains 
in the early 50s. Between these two extremes were 
two intermediate grades, the Middle Texans and 
Utahs. 

Of course in each grade there was wide difference 
in quality and therefore in values. 

Then, to make the tenderfoot buyer's task almost 
hopeless, a separate price was set on cows and calves, 
in one class, and on yearlings, two, three, and four- 
year-olds, in four distinct classes ; and classification 
by age had to be made on the open plains, while the 
cattle were run in a narrow and steady stream be- 
tween the mounted buyer and seller. 

While really the only practicable method of classi- 
fication, it plainly gave the canny, hawk-eyed old- 
time trail drivers a terrible advantage over the 
tenderfoot they never neglected — a chance to class 
many a big calf as a yearling, long yearlings as two- 
[78] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

year-olds, etc., and thus to heavily mark up the aver- 
age per capita price of the herd. 

And not always content even with this advantage, 
there was one notorious bit of mixed humour and 
thrift, where 1,200 cattle were converted into 2,400, 
in making the running tally or count, by selecting an 
isolated hill as the place of their delivery to their 
monocled, crop-carrying, straight-spurred British 
buyer, and the simple expedient of running the tal- 
lied cattle round the hill for recount until their actual 
number was doubled ! Thus were staid English sover- 
eigns captured and converted into laughter-scream- 
ing American eagles ! 

But this was an exception proving a rule. 

For years cattle were dealt in by thousands, run- 
ning high in six figures in value, on contracts (for 
two to three months future delivery) which often 
remained mere verbal agreements, or at best were 
represented by a few lines rudely pencilled on the 
back of a tomato can label! 

No matter how largely the market prices in the in- 
terval might vary against either buyer or seller, I 
never heard of the case of a man getting the worst of 
such a trade undertaking to repudiate his agreement 
— some from motives of inherent honesty, some from 
an inside hunch that any attempt at repudiation 
[79] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

would promptly result in the distribution through 
his system of more lead than he could comfortably 
carry. 

In those days cowmen's differences never got into 
the civil courts and very seldom into the criminal — 
never, in fact, except where the party in chief in- 
terest ran out of .45 cartridges or into a prairie dog 
hole. 

Squabble how they might over classification, cow- 
men always delivered and received as agreed. 

The pitfalls of classification I promptly side- 
stepped, by deciding to buy a straight bunch of cows 
and calves. 

The mystery of relative values I had to find the 
key for, and old newspaper instinct promptly sug- 
gested — pick the biggest winner and study him at his 
xvorlc. 

At that time Alex Swan was the largest buyer of 
trail cattle and the most experienced and successful 
cowman in Wyoming, so generally conceded. 

Thus it happened that, for a month, everywhere 
that Alex went the tenderfoot went too. Every herd 
Swan examined, I was seldom out of earshot — and 
usually contrived to learn the prices he bid, whether 
they were accepted or rejected. 

Finally a day came when he refused a bunch about 
[80] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

my size (716 cows, each with a calf by its side) on a 
difference of a dollar a head with the seller, and when 
he was gone, after much palaver and the inevitable 
cow-trade accompaniment of stick whittling, I got 
the seller to split the dollar and bought the bunch. 

The herd bought was delivered to me at the home 
ranch of the seller (who had himself driven them from 
Utah), near the summit of one of the lowest passes 
in the Rockies. Delivery was not finished till so late 
in the afternoon we were able to drive no more than 
a scant four miles from the seller's ranch, and com- 
pelled to camp in the heart of his range. 

And since he had that same day turned loose on his 
range 2,000 head bearing the same brand as my pur- 
chase, the last possible care was necessary against 
straying or a stampede. Any there so lost it would 
be extremely difficult, and perhaps even impossible, 
to recover, for the seller was reputed an adept at 
making the best of a profitable opportunity. 

Camp was made beside a spring at the edge of a 
fairly level grassy glade two or three hundred yards 
wide. To the west of the glade lay a mile of tangled 
dead fall and thick strewn boulders, breaking sharp- 
ly down at its western edge, in an almost precipitous 
descent of two or three hundred feet, to a small 
tributary of the Laramie River. It was as rough a 
[81] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

bit of country as even the combined effect of glacier, 
fire and wind could possibly produce, almost utterly 
impassable to a horseman in daylight. 

As Cress put it while we were eating supper : 
" I shore don't like th' look o' that old lobo that 
tallied t' us, 'n' I likes his motions less than his looks. 
With his p'inted ole nose 'n' yaller eyes, he favours a 
wolf more'n any human I ever threw an eye on, 'n' 
his turnin' a big bunch o' his drive loose on th' range 
in th' same road-brand you done bot under, looks 
like he was figurin' on our makin' a big loosin' 'fore 
we kin git out o' his range or git t' know any 'v 'em 
well 'nough t' tell 'em by th' flesh marks 'n' make a 
reclaim. Reckon we-all better make her a double- 
guard after th' first relief — for any hell he tries to 
kick up in the way o' a loose blanket or chap-shakin' 
stampede '11 come along o' midnight. 

" If they jumps west into that snarl o' wind- failed 
dead timber 'n' rocks, I allows no boss ever foaled is 
liable to live thro' it long 'nough t' git t' head 'n' 
turn 'em. 'N' if ever they reaches th' aidge o' that 
thar caiion, yu're set back, 01' Man, 'n' that ole 
lobo's set up by every one goin' over, a makin' ole 
lobo so pleased with hisse'f he's liable t' tickle plumb 
t' death if we-all don't empty a few loads o' lead into 
his carcass t' divert him. It's shore head 'em quick, 
[82] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

or Man, if they jumps. 'N' we kin thank ole Mahster 
they're cows, 'stead o' steers ! " 

Of course the chance that a herd of cows and 
calves, thoroughly trail broke and well-grazed and 
watered, would stampede of a fair night was scarcely 
one in a thousand; but if, from any circumstance, 
they should jump their bed ground, Cress put the 
certainty of heavy losses none too strongly. 

So I decided to take the first relief myself, giving 
Cress, as mover of the motion, the honour of sitting 
his horse all night with me, with the understanding 
that at 10:30 p.m. Tex should join us with the 
balance of the outfit, every man on his best horse. 
Surely the eight of us could hold them, come what 
might. 

My mount was a great, powerful fifteen and three- 
quarter hand stocking-legged sorrel, far better than 
a half-breed. I had bought him of Arthur Coffee, who 
had brought him through from Texas that spring 
with a drive of 500 unbroke mustangs " for stam- 
pede insurance," as Coffee put it. 

" And if there's anything on these plains he can't 
outrun, short of somebody's thoroughbred, I'll give 
you back your $150; our remouda stampeded eight 
times without the loss of a single horse, and it was 
* Stocking ' turned them every time," Coffee added. 
[ 83 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" Stocking " was that rare equine combination of 
steel spring muscles and fierce spirit that leaves the 
best horseman in doubt how long he may remain his 
master ; a horse that, shirking nothing, grandly 
charges everything you put him at — and takes it or 
dies — a horse out of a million to have between your 
knees in any great emergency. 

And that night " Stocking " proved himself far 
and away the cheapest " insurance " I ever bought, 
for he certainly saved me the better part of 
$20,000 ! 

It was a perfect night in late September, without 
moon, but cloudless, the stars glittering like pale 
rubies in their azure setting, dark, of course, and yot 
far short of the brooding black of an Eastern night, 
the last night to look for a stampede unless from will- 
ful mischief or from whatever of the supernatural 
agencies sometimes in an instant turn a sleeping herd 
into a running, raging animal torrent nigh impossible 
to stem. 

Round and round we rode. Cress and I, jingling 
our spurs and humming snatches of song to avoid 
startling our charges by sudden silent appearance 
out of the darkness. 

There they lay, bedded down in a circle, quiet and 
peaceful as pigs in a pen, a chorus of cud-chewing 
[84] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

rising from the wakeful, and of contented deep bass 
sighs of surfeit from the sleepers. 

It was too early in the night for any straying 
from within the herd, so we could give most of 
our attention to any trouble approaching from 
without. 

But no trouble came, nothing happened — until 
nearly ten o'clock. 

At the moment, I was riding on the far eastern 
edge of the circle. 

Suddenly, with no hint of alarm or untoward inci- 
dent, up rose the herd as one and off the bed ground 
they poured in mad gallop, by every ill fatality due 
west ! 

Caught unexpected just on the edge of the surg- 
ing bovine torrent. Cress and his horse (I later 
learned) were struck and knocked prostrate, luckily 
to one side of its path, the horse so badly injured he 
was of little further use on the run. 

Instantly they jumped I loosened rein and gave 
" Stocking " spur and quirt at every bound, racing 
for the lead. 

In a moment, it seemed, we were out of the glade 
and into the dead fall. 

Just as I entered the timber I heard two shots be- 
hind and to the left of me. 

[85] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Beside me roared the maddened herd, in dense 
mass. 

Above the thunder of their hoofs and the clashing 
of their horns rose the crash of rending timber, 
throuf^h which they drove like a heavily loaded train 
through empty box cars. 

They appeared irresistible. As well try to check 
Niagara or stay a flooding tide! 

And on we went, " Stocking " and I gaining on 
them at every jump. 

Brave old " Stocking " seemed to have the eyes of 
a cat and the leaping muscles of a black-tailed buck. 

Smashing through tangles of dead limbs, bound- 
ing over great gray trunks, leaping boulders, dodg- 
ing the impossible jumps in mighty swerves that 
taxed my strength to keep my seat, " Stocking " 
raced successfully in the dark across the worst piece 
of country I believe it was ever given a horse to sur- 
vive, and carried me to the front of the leaders, in 
the first half mile! 

It was splendid, epic, as proud a moment as equine 
history affords. 

And no spur or quirt blow touched him after we 
reached the timber — I was too busy struggling to 
keep my seat ! 

Oil a less heroic horse than " Stocking " I dare say 
[86] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

I should have funked running squarely In the lead of 
the bloody, heaving, hideous mass hard upon our 
heels, for there to fall meant instant mangling — 
death. 

But with his straining muscles superbly answering 
every call, his great barrel pulsing evenly between 
my thighs without throb or catch of distress, some- 
how his mighty strength of will and thews got into 
mine, and lead them all we did, I yelhng and shooting 
into the leaders fast as I could empty and reload my 
gun. 

Presently, with now and then a leader falling to my 
shots, the herd swerved a trifle north. 

A moment later my men from camp began arriving 
one by one, adding their yells and shots and thrash- 
ing slickers to mine. 

Five minutes later the stampede was broken and 
the herd " milling " furiously, running round and 
round in a compact, solid mass. 

Fifteen minutes later we had the mill broken, and 
were quietly moving the herd back to the bed ground. 

When morning came we found twenty-six dead in 
the timber, of trampling or shots, while many were 
dehorned or otherwise cut and mutilated. 

The actual cause of the stampede we never knew, 
but we had something more tangible than suspicions. 
[87] 



REMIXISCFAXES OF A RANCHMAN 

And it was good old faithful Tex who gave them 
point. 

" When ju-all 'n' Cress takes first relief," he said, 
" I slips out 'round th' herd 'n' stays coyotin' 'round 
back 'n' forth 'tween th' herd 'n' ole lobars camp. 
Never seed nothin' till th' herd jumped, 'n' then here 
come a feller quirtin' 'n' spurrin' south I knowed 
couldn't be yu-all, 'n' so I lends him two loads out o' 
my gun 'fore he gits losed in th' dark. This mornin' I 
circles for his trail 'n' got it — 'n' also a spur, shot 
loose at th' concho, 'n' besides th' juicy joy o' seein' 
right smart o' blood along his tracks. If we only had 
these yere cows branded, I'd be in favour o' turnin' 
all other holts loose 'till we-all'd shot the lights outcn 

everything that wears a gun on this d d thievin' 

ranch." 

The tenderfoot was getting on, but Tex's sug- 
gestion was so far a hotter pace than even " Stock- 
ing's," that the culprits were left with the will for 
the deed. 

While the plan was later changed, it was then my 
intention ultimately to drive northwest into the Fort 
Casper country in search of a range for the herd. 
The outpost of range settlement in that direction at 
the time was the Loomis Ranch, at the west end of the 
Laramie Canon and forty miles north of the U. P., 
[88] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

then abandoned on account of Sioux horse-stealing 
raids that spring. 

However, hearing it had large corrals in good con- 
dition, thither we drove, only to find the chutes of 
the corrals in such bad condition they could not be 
used. This compelled us to rope and throw each cow 
and calf singly, one rider roping the head, another 
rider the heels, a third man " tailing down," and a 
fourth applying the branding-iron. 

It was hard, wearing work, so hard on the horses 
that by the time the last cow was branded no horses 
remained with the strength or soundness of back to 
justify their use in calf branding. 

Grazed slowly through over the Bitter Creek trail, 
the calves were almost as heavy and strong as Texas 
yearlings, so heavy that the roping and throwing 
them afoot exhausted and irritated the men till they 
became nearly unmanageable. 

The second evening of this work I overheard Mack 
Lambert holding forth to his bed-mate: 

" What 'n hell 'd we-all want t' hire out for t' a 
fool tenderfoot kid that caint tell a yearling from a 
coyote a couple o' hundred yards off? Fine bunch o' 
dilberries, we-uns, a lettin' him fetch us out 'n' set us 
afoot th' first ten days ! I'd druther go down into th' 
settlements 'n' hire out t' some ole long-whiskered 
[89] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

granger t' shovel hay 'n' dig post holes than be made 
t' work cows afoot like a locoed sheep-herder. It's me 
for a jump, pronto ! " 

Indeed, it was plain this sentiment pervaded the 
entire outfit, bar Tex and Cress, who worked faith- 
fully wherever I put them. 

The next day the general irritation bred a crisis. 

Tired and slack in his work, Mack several times 
allowed calves such free run on his rope that they 
smashed into Howe, who was " tailing down " for 
another roper. 

Twice I had warned him to be more careful — the 
only result a surly " bueno." 

Presently another of Mack's calves crashed into 
Howe, its sharp hoof badly tearing his hand. Instant- 
ly he sprang to his feet, seized a branding-iron and 
felled Mack, luckily with no more than a glancing 
blow, and jumped on and began beating him. 

Too short-handed to have a man disabled, I 
grabbed the men and pulled them apart and or- 
dered them back to their work, and they sullenly 
complied. 

For perhaps fifteen minutes there was peace in the 

pen, and then suddenly Cress ran up and told me 

M.ick was coming from the waggon with my rifle — 

imist have slipped out of the pen unobserved to arm 

[90] 



THE TENDERFOOT'S FIRST HERD 

himself, as he, with several others, had left their belts 
at the waggon. 

Plainly a kill-up would be more disastrous to work 
than a beat-up, and must be stopped. 

As I jumped over the corral fence my pistol scab- 
bard slipped squarely in front of me — fortunately. 

Mack was rapidly approaching me. 

Just as I hit the ground, I saw him throw a cart' 
ridge into the great .45-120 Sharps, and cock it. 

We met. 

" What are you doing with that gun. Mack.? " I 
asked. 

" Goin' t' kill Howe, by ," he growled. 

" Drop her instantly. Mack, and hop into that pen 
and go on roping," I bluffed. 

" See yer hull tenderfoot layout in hell first — it's 
Howe fer th' buzzards ! " 

" Drop her ! " I repeated. 

" By , I'll beef yu, ef yu'r bound t' have it, 

'n' then git Howe ! " and instantly he covered me 
with the full-cocked rifle, its great muzzle within two 
feet of my face, his snaky, wicked right eye gleaming 
maliciously at me over the gun sights. 

And right there somebody about my size wished 
" the party was to hell and he was to home," and 
wondered why a threatening gun muzzle had been 
[91] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

described as looking no larger than a hogshead when 
this one was undoubtedly wide as the yawning future. 

But badly scared as I was, I realised it meant death 
to lose that glittering eye for an instant, and con- 
trived to hold it, I'm sure I don't know how. 

And so we stood, both motionless, I verily believe 
two minutes, long enough anyway for me to re- 
cover wits and tongue, and I know that must have 
taken time. 

There was nothing for it but a cold blazer, so I 
remarked, with a struggle for a grin that made the 
muscles of my face ache : 

" Well, Mack, you are a four-flusher ! Don't dare 
turn her loose, do you.'' Know if you did Tex and 
Cress would have your hide hung up to dry before 
sundown ! Why, there they go for the waggon now ! " 

And before Mack could recover from his impulsive 
half-turn — to find that none but our two selves were 
outside the pen — my pistol was out of the scabbard 
and inserted sufficiently within his ear to convince 
him he had no further use for a rifle. 

A hint to Mack that if he made any more gun 
plays or so much as batted an eye, I would help Howe 
rope and drag him, turned a kicker into a fairly good 
worker, and at the same time materially helped the 
general discipline of the outfit for a day or two. 
[92] 



CHAPTER FIVE 
A COWBOY MUTINY 

MY trouble with my first bunch of cow punch- 
ers did not end with the termination of 
Mack Lambert's war play. With horses 
worn out and the men forced to work afoot in the 
Loomis's corrals, the task of branding seven hundred 
three-fourths-grown Oregon calves, heavy as Texas 
yearlings, was hard on the strength and trying on 
the temper of master and men. 

Moreover, as the men had predicted to Tex, and he 
had plainly put it to me before we left Cheyenne, I 
knew that I was making none too brilliant a success 
of my undertaking to act as my own foreman. Ig- 
norance inspired many an ill-considered order that 
neither shortened nor lightened the work. 

Presently the storm broke. One morning, as If by 
concerted agreement, all the men but Cress and Tex 
began disregarding my orders, openly jeered at 
them, idled through the day's work as they pleased, 
and freely cursed their stupidity for hiring out to a 
[93] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" blue-bellied Yankee kid tenderfoot," and two showed 
a sullen ugliness that threatened personal abuse or 
attack. 

I was at my wits' end — desperate. I must be master 
of my outfit or quit the country, that was certain. 
Of course I might hire a foreman, but I felt I could 
not afford it — and besides could not get my own con- 
sent to abandon the task I had undertaken. 

Moreover, I realised that unless I quickly re-estab- 
hshed my authority, I should soon lose the fidelity of 
even Cress and Tex. 

Only one sure way out of the dilemma appeared — 
to discharge the six kickers, fire them in the way 
punchers dread most and never accept without a gun 
play, except from a boss against whom they dare 
show no resentment, viz : " to set them afoot to walk 
and pack their blankets to town." 

With Lookout the nearest railway station and the 
walking none too good over the forty intervening 
miles of thick sage brush, the chances were about 
six to one that my career would end right there in 
an unmarked grave, with only the whistle of the 
winds through the sage and a coyote chorus for a 
requiem. 

But the chance had to be taken, there was nothing 
else for it. So that evening, during the first night 
[94] 



A COWBOY MUTINY 

guard, I made an opportunity to talk to Cress and 
Tex and learn if, as I believed, I could rely on their 
support. 

Briefly I stated that I proposed to set the six afoot 
the next morning, and, if I succeeded in getting away 
with the play, to myself drive our four-mule team to 
Lookout and bring out a new outfit of men and fresh 
supplies from Laramie City, provided the two of 
them would do their best to hold the herd during the 
three days of my absence : " Stay with them, if you 
can, and if you lose them all you'll hear no kick 
from me," I finished. 

Of aid in dealing with the insubordinates I asked 
none: that was my row, not theirs, and besides the 
task I set them was about enough, for it meant 
at least three days practically without sleep or 
rest. 

Tex gripped my bridle arm with his great hairy 
hand and softly queried: 

" 01' Man, does yu shorely mean it? Thar's two in 
that bunch kin draw 'n' kill yu 'fore yu could get 
y'ur gun out." 

" Certainly, Tex, I mean it," I answered. " I've 

just got it to do, must take the chance. Maybe they 

won't call the play ; if they call, I'll have to do my 

best, that's all — and if they get me just write a line 

[95] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

to at , and say what 

happened." 

Both sat silent in their saddles so long I began to 
fear they were hesitating, but the moment Tex spoke 
I knew it was sheer astonishment that had chained 
their tongues. 

With a grim smile, the loudest expression of 
pleasure or merriment Tex ever indulged in, he said 
to Cress : 

" Now, Sam, ain't yu d n glad yu come? Didn't 

I tell yu that ef our 01' Man wa'n't nothin' but a 
little ol' tcnde'foot kid, he'd make a sooner, poco ti- 
empo? 'Pears like he's comin' some a'ready, 'n' I 
allows all hell ain't a goin t' stop yu 'n' me a stayin' 
with him t' th' last jump o' airy trail he reckons he 
wants t' foller ! " 

And then to me: 

" 01' IVIan, 'pears t' me like thar must be a Bitter 
Creek back whar yu come from, 'n' that yu must a 

been foaled up nigh th' headwaters. Why, yu d n 

little ol' wolf, yu jest howl all yu want tu ; 'n' ef 
that bunch gits t' junin' 'round when yu jumps 'em, 
'n' yu caint eat 'em up fast 'nough by y'ur lonesome, 
Cress 'n' me '11 jest nachally lie in 'n' hc'p yu chew 
iijj til' hull passle. 

" Stay with th' herd.? Will we? Bet y'ur alee we'll 
[96] 



A COWBOY MUTINY 

stay with her, 'n' not lose yu airy a cow or calf, 'n' 
what's more, we'll stay wi' yu 'n' y'urn anywhar till 
hell's froze intu a skatin' pond. 

" Yu shore got a pow'rful variegated lot o' fool 
idees in that thar little nut o' y'urn 'bout runnin' a 
cow outfit, 'n' ef thar's airy show to git started at 
th' wrong end o' a job, it's been yu fer a loose-tail 
holt every time. But with this bunch o' hosstile 
sports y'ur shore makin' no mistake in th' game 
y'ur puttin' up, 'n' Cress 'n' me sits In 'n' draws 
cards cheerful, don't we, Cress ? " 

" We draws 'n' plays th' hand plumb t' th' finish, 
01' Man," answered Sam. " Keep y'ur eye screwed 
tight on airy feller y'ur talkin' t' p'rticular, 'n' be 
sure we'll 'tend t' all th' pressin'est wants o' his side 
partners. Lite Into y'ur blankets 'n' pound y'ur ear 
a plenty 'n' don't worry none, for hits 'dobe dol- 
lars t' tlacos we'll either stampoodle that bunch 
'thout throwin' lead or else git t' dance on their 
graves." 

" Good, boys," I responded ; " I knew I could bank 
on you, and I'm not likely to forget what you've said 
and are ready to do. I'll call the game right after 
breakfast." 

And then I rode into camp, staked my horse and 
rolled up in my blankets as advised. But It was little 
[97] 



REiMINISC^NCES OF A RANCHMAN 

indeed I slept until near morning, for the task ahead 
of me was one the oldest and toughest trail boss could 
not contemplate with any large measure of enthu- 
siasm. 

The six men I had to deal with already held my 
authority in contempt and were ugly and resentful. 
Each was doubly armed, with Winchester and six- 
shooter. Four were reckless enough to throw lead if 
they felt they ought to, and two were mean enough, 
I well knew, to welcome the chance, both with notches 
on their guns unfairly won by " getting the drop." 
Thus it seemed certain that when they were forced 
to confront the insult and hardship of being " set 
afoot to pack their blankets to town," a bad mix-up 
was inevitable. 

We breakfasted, as usual, shortly after dawn, be- 
fore good sun-up, squatted closely about the camp- 
fire, for already at that altitude ice formed every 
night along the margin of the Laramie. It was a 
silent, surly group, with none of the usual jest and 
badinage over " hen-skin blankets " and " fat hul- 
dys " a cold morning usually inspired. 

Thus coffee, beans and beef were soon chambered, 
cigarettes rolled and lit, and the outfit rose. 

Mack Lambert was the first to step to his saddle 
and pick up his rope to catch his morning mount. 
[98] 



A COWBOY MUTINY 

" Drop that rope, you ! " I called. 

" What in hell " 

" Drop it and cut the back talk ! It means that 
your rope don't go on any more Three Crow horses, 
and that you and the five other kickers have your 
time, quit camp in ten minutes and hit the trail for 
the railroad, packing your blankets, and that any 
man of you that don't feel like he'd enjoy the prom- 
enade can go into action right now ! " 

As I spoke I had been advancing on Mack until, 
finished, we stood close face to face. 

At first his expression was one of blank astonish- 
ment, and then, as he came to realise that he, a full- 
pledged puncher from the Brazos, and his five saddle 
mates, none of whom probably had walked as much 
as five miles straight away in five years, were about 
to suffer the indignity of being set afoot forty miles 
from the railway, the lips tightened and eyes glow- 
ered murderous hate. 

" You ! You, bald-faced tenderfoot ! Fire us t' hoof 
it t' town ! It's a dog trot for hell for you, 'n' you 
starts right now ! " 

And at the word his hand flashed back to his pistol, 

but, before his fingers could have tightened on the 

butt, I landed a violent kick fair on the flat of Mack's 

shin bone, that doubled him up, howling with the pain, 

[99] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

and gave me a chance to snatch his pistol from its 
scabbard and give him a tap on the jaw with it that 
put him temporarily out of pain. 

Then out came my own gun, and with the pair in 
my hands I whirled on the bunch, wondering how it 
came they had left me still alive, and expecting the 
next instant to be my last. 

But there was nothing doing! All necessary was 
already done — most efficiently — by dear old Tex. 

And I had been so much preoccupied that I had 
not even noted the crash of his blow that put an end 
to the one other attempt to turn our little drama 
into a tragedy. 

While I was occupied with Mack, Clark, the other 
" bad man " of the lot, stood ten steps on my left 
and a little behind me. 

At the instant Mack started to draw, Clark had 
jerked his gun, but before it was fairly free of the 
scabbard, Tex had hit him a terrible smash with his 
pistol, breaking his nose, laying him out stiff, and 
quickly swelling both eyes until they were in poor 
shape for accurate snap-shooting. 

And then I found that, all the time, quiet, easy- 
going Sam Cress had been sitting comfortably on 
the ground, with his back against a waggon wheel, 
till' left knee drawn up for a convenient elbow rest, 
[ 100 ] . , ; 



A COWBOY MUTINY 

and his Winchester in his hands, ready to pot any 
that needed it! 

Just as I turned from Mack, Sam remarked : 

" Fellers, th' kid's dealin' th' only game thar's any 
show t' sit in 'round here ; I'm in th' ' lookout ' chair, 
'n' Tex is keepin' cases. Ef she looks good t' yu, we'll 
be glad t' go yu a whirl. What say ? " 

But there was no " say." The two toughest were 
down, unconscious, the rest cowed; and a half 
hour later the six insubordinates sullenly but quietly 
marched off south through the sage brush. 

It was mid-forenoon of the fourth day before I 
got back from Laramie City with a new outfit of men. 
Tex and Sam were drawn and heavy-eyed from their 
long vigil, but not a hoof was missing from the 1,506 
left in their custody ! It was a remarkable feat for 
two men, and one that would have been impossible 
except with a well-broke trail herd ranging on gen- 
erous feed in a country entirely free of other cattle. 

Branding soon finished and a few spare days al- 
lowed for resting the horses, a fortnight later we 
swung the herd north up Duck Creek Valley to the 
head of " Collin's Cut Off," the shortest route 
through the main range from Fort Laramie to Medi- 
cine Bow, a mere pack trail of old fur-trading days, 
that neither before or since, to the best of my belief, 
[101] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

ever had a herd taken through it, following a gorge 
so narrow, heavily timbered, and at times so precip- 
itous as to be almost impassable to anything but a 
Rocky Mountain goat. 

But time was pressing. Snow was already due, snow 
that would seal all the passes and leave us to winter 
on the bleak Laramie Plains. So into it we plunged, 
and at last, after many mishaps and no inconsiderable 
loss, out of it we came — drifted down the Sabille to 
the Laramie, and then across to the Platte, which we 
crossed in a heavy snow-storm the very last day be- 
fore ice formed so heavily in the river that later 
crossing became impossible. 

With the snow come, we had to winter where we 
were. 

A sheltered nook on Cottonwood Creek, twelve 
miles west of Fort Laramie, I chose for our winter 
camp, and tight, warm diggings were soon finished ; 
literally " diggings," for the house was a hole eigh- 
teen feet square dug in the side of the bank, set round 
with Cottonwood poles, standing on end close to- 
gether, the crevices chinked with nmd, and roofed 
with like poles covered with grass and earth, a rude 
stone fireplace and chimney at tlie back. 

The one extravagance about the house was the 
door. Lacking lumber, the door remained for some 
[ 102] 



A COWBOY MUTINY 

time an unsolved problem — until one day my top cut- 
ting horse fell under Cress and broke a leg, leaving 
no alternative but to shoot him. 

And then a sound economic thought occurred to 
the resourceful Sam — he skinned the top cutter, 
stretched the green hide cleverly on a pole frame, 
hung the frame on rawhide hinges, and lo ! we had a 
door — loose, to be sure, of latch and wide of crevice, 
but still a door, a seventy-five dollar door on a ten 
dollar house ! 

The outfit comfortably settled, Cress and I 
mounted and rode away south for Cheyenne, he for 
a visit to his Texas home and friends, I for a short 
business trip to New York. 

Reaching Cheyenne early in the forenoon of the 
third day from the ranch, we were not in town an 
hour before Cress came to me with the cheerful news 
that Mack Lambert was in town drunk, had heard of 
my arrival, and was hunting me with a gun, swearing 
to kill me on sight. 

Mack sober I had learned not to fear, except from 
ambush. Mack drunk, however, was certain to be a 
deadly, dangerous proposition ; and thus it happened 
that I can now recall that particular forenoon as 
rather the most uncertain and uncomfortable I ever 
experienced. 

[ 103 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

I had many errands I could not neglect that took 
me all about the town, and it was just good luck and 
nothing else that we did not meet. And when at 1 : 30 
P.M. I rolled out of the station bound eastward, com- 
fortably settled on Pullman plush, and felt new miles 
rapidly stacking up between Mack and myself, I, 
for a time, settled down to serious study whether the 
game was worth the candle, and, after mature reflec- 
tion, decided it was. 

A month later, mid-December, found me back in 
Wyoming, jogging alone northward on the Laramie 
road. 

Late the second afternoon out from Cheyenne, be- 
tween Chugwater and Eagle's Nest, ahead of me I 
saw a heavily laden ranch supply wagon, its four 
yoke of work cattle struggling painfully through the 
deep sand, in frequent sudden lurching spurts caused 
by the wicked lash of their needlessly cruel driver, 
who trudged afoot alongside the nigh wheeler. 

And as I approached the team, whom should I 
recognise in the bull whacker but Mack Lambert — 
evidently stranded for a saddle-seat by too late a 
spree in town and forced to take orders as a bull 
whacker, a situation sure to have him in willing tem- 
per for any war play that offered ! 

Dodge I should have been glad to, but I did not 
[104] 



A COWBOY MUTINY 

dare dodge ; felt I could not afford it. Here I had all 
the advantage of a complete surprise ; any day later 
the chance of a surprise might be his. 

After his war talk in Cheyenne I should have been 
perfectly justified in shooting him down without 
warning — and from the viewpoint of my own future 
peace of mind it was a great temptation. He or his 
kind would do no less ; why not I ? 

But that was a trifle too large an order In cow 
range ethics, and so I smothered the thought and 
decided to tackle him. 

We were alone ; no one in sight ahead or behind. 

The groans of overloaded axles and the shrill creak 
of straining yoke-bows covered all sounds of my own 
approach through the heavy sand of the road until 
I was opposite the hind wheels of his wagon. Then, 
as I saw him note a strange sound and begin to turn, 
I spurred forward, and in a bound of my horse was 
immediately upon him and drew rein. 

For a few seconds we glared at each other. Then 
he growled: 

" Well, by , it's you, is it.? " 

" Yes, Mack, it's just me," I replied. " And I've 

something to say to you. I've heard that a month ago 

you were hunting me in Cheyenne, vowing to kill me 

on sight. Now if you have anything against me, 

[105] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

here's as fine a chance as you could ask to settle it. 
You have your belt and gun on and I mine, nobody's 
holding you, and we're alone. Bat an eye or make a 
move, and it will be the quickest man for a scalp." 

His eye wavered a bit, and I knew I had him on 
the run. Then presently he grumbled : 

" Say, 01' Man Kid, mine was jest nothin* but 
whiskey talk down t' Cheyenne. She don't go, see? 
Yu shore handed me anything but prittys over on th' 
Laramie, but I reckon I got no more 'n was a comin' 
t' me for undersizin' y'ur play. Reckon 'fore I tackle 
another tende'foot kid I'll set up long 'nough nights 
t' lam whether his system is fullest o' deuces or 
uces ! " 

" Quite sure you've no kick. Mack? " I queried. 

" None but that little lovin' one yu give me on th' 
Laramie, 'n' I allow I was due for it," he half-grinned. 

" Well, so long then, Mack," I said, and trotted 
slowly ahead, half-turned in my saddle to make sure 
he did not change his mind. 



[106] 



CHAPTER SIX 

WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

I RETURNED to my winter camp on Cotton- 
wood in a fierce mid-December blizzard, the first 
of the season, the temperature so low that little 
snow was falling, but the wind so high that it lifted 
and filled the air with what seemed almost solid masses 
of the last fall, that, driving horizontally before a 
thirty or forty mile wind, made it nearly impossible 
for man and horse to face it. 

But my mount, " Alizan," a stout-hearted, heavy- 
muscled sorrel half-breed, struggled bravely against 
the bitter blasts sweeping the ridges and wallowed 
stubbornly through the drifts filling the hollows, and 
finally, more by his own instinct than my guidance, 
brought me safely to the ranch door a little after 
sundown. 

And lucky it was we came up squarely in front of 

the eighteen-foot dugout, for little enough of it 

showed above the all-mantling snow ; a narrow ribbon 

of light outlined the loosely set door; a grayish 

[107] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

column of smoke, faintly gold-tinted by its mother 
flames, rose from the great chimney and swept swiftly 
away southeast into the night — that was all. 

Howl and bluster as it might without, within all 
Avas good cheer and rude comfort. 

Big, dry juniper logs were roaring with joy of 
the light and warmth they were bringing us ; in a 
corner of the fireplace a kettle of dried apples stewed 
and quietly simmered, cuddled contentedly alongside 
a coffee pot, whose contents bubbled riotously in pride 
of its amber strength ; across the fire a pot-bellied 
Dutch oven and its glowing crest of live coals in char- 
acteristic stolid silence wrought out its task of pro- 
ducing us a crisp brown loaf; no little annoyed, 
doubtless, by the half score slices of fat bacon siz- 
zling and sputtering angrily near by. 

The dugout I found transformed. I had left it a 
month before empty of all furniture, the mud chink- 
ing on the walls scarce dry. During my absence the 
boys had furnished it — not sumptuously, to be sure, 
but fully and comfortably. 

A table and stools the axes had served to produce 
out of poles and hewn slabs ; four stout bedstead 
frames had been built against the walls, two to right 
and two to left of the door, and a rawhide slung by 
its four corners to each of the bedstead frames made 
[108] 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

a mattress not entirely devoid of flexibility ; three or 
four tomato can cases nailed to the wall served as 
pantry ; wooden hooks above each bunk held the rifles 
and belts ; the space beneath the bunks served as store- 
room and was packed with spare supplies ; a bunch 
of willow twigs bound tightly about an end of a pole 
made a tolerable broom, and the tawny skin of a big 
mountain lion (prey to Tex's rifle) lay as a rug be- 
fore the bunk held inviolate for me. 

And roughly fashioned, with no tools other than 
axe and saw, made without scrap of lumber, iron or 
glass as were the dugout and its fittings, proud as 
Lucifer was I of this the first house I ever owned, and 
happy in it as in any more pretentious that since 
has sheltered me. 

Tex I found well but worried — badly worried. 

" Pow'ful glad t' see yu back, 01' Man ; done needed 
yu fo' a week," he greeted. 

"What's the trouble, Tex?" I asked; "Indians 
been in on you? " 

" Nop, nary Injun ; no' sign." 

" Any rustlers out brand burning? " 

" Nop ! " 

" Lost any horses ? " 

" Nop ! " 

" Coyote chewed up your pet rawhide riata? " 
[109] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" Nop ! " 

" ' Balaam ' " (a little Spanish mule and Tex's fa- 
vourite mount for range riding) " gone lame? " 

" Nop ! " 

" Well, then, whatever is the trouble, Tex ? " 

" Hell's own plenty o' trouble ; that thar 01' Man 
Mack on Muskrat Creek's plumb crazy, 'n' unsafe t' 
be loose 'mong whites ; shore t' do some o' us up or 
butt his fool haid off agin a rock; ought t' be £?«- 
corted back t' his folks 'n' took care of." 

Mack & Peers were our nearest neighbours, small 
ranchmen living eighteen miles away, whose acquain- 
tance I had made shortly before going East in No- 
vember. 

Peers was a fine type of Pike County Missourian, 
a keen, alert, capable, all-round frontiersman and 
cowman. 

Mack was a man of education and polish, plainly 
well bred, past fifty, carefully grammatical of speech 
as well as one could judge from the little he said, for 
he was quiet and reserved to the point of downright 
taciturnity — a sad-faced, gentle man who tended the 
ranch while his partner Peers rode the range, evi- 
dently nursing memories of some grief or trouble 
from which he there sought exile, amid rude surround- 
ings in which he always remained a pathetic misfit. 
[110] 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

Thus it was with the greatest surprise I que- 
ried : 

" Whatever is the matter with Mr. Mack, Tex ? " 

" Jest adzactlj what I tells yu — crazy as a locoed 
steer." 

" So ? Has he been making any war plays ? " 

" Nix ; not yet ; but he's shore to — that's what- 
ever. Ain't at hisself at all." 

" How do you know ? How did you find it out, 
Tex.?» 

" Wall, it's thisaway. 'Bout a week ago, while 
me 'n' ' Balaam ' was out sign ridin', we struck a 
bunch o' strays strung out for Muskrat, 'n' it come 
night 'fore we got 'em headed and swung back toward 
th' home range. 

" It was so late, I 'lowed me 'n' th' mule would see 
if we could git t' stay all night at Mack & Peers's 
camp. So up I rides 'n' hollers, 'n' gits down. 

" Hearin' me holler, out come oF Mack hisself, 'n' 
right off he axes me t' onsaddle 'n' put th' mule in th' 
shed ; which-all suited ' Balaam ' 'n' me special, for 
a nor'easter was blowin' we'd a had to go quarterin' 
agin t' git home that thar was no sorta show t' git 
overhet in. 

" When I got in th' cabin, thar was ol' Mack put- 
terin' 'bout th' fireplace, cookin' supper. He give 
[111] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

me a stool in th' chimley corner, 'n' then tol' me 
Peers had went t' th' Fort for th' mail, 'n' 'lowed t' 
stay thar all night — wanted t' tank up a few on red 
eye, I reckon, at Bullock's store. 

" 'N' that was jest nachally all th' news I got out 
o' 01' Man Mack th' hull night — never said another 
dod-blamed word but ' yes ' 'n' ' no ' until th' next 
mornin', when, by strainin' his system horrible, he 
did git t' give up a ' good-bye ' when I rode off. 

" She was a hell o' a unsociable evenin', yu can bet 
y'ur alee on that. 

" Feelin' as vis'tur it was up t' me t' be entertainin', 
I tried t' talk, by making remarks 'bout th' weather, 
'n' Injuns, 'n' rustlers, 'n' how th' Platte was froze 
so nigh solid, 'n' snow layin' so thick, thar was mighty 
little fo' stock t' eat o' drink, makin' 'em shore t* 
come out pore 'n' weak in th' spring. 

" But fo' all the response it fetched out o' him, I 
might as well a been talkin' t' a bunch o' rnnains. 

" His listeners 'peared t' be workin' all right, fo' 
sometimes he'd loosen up t' th' extent o' a ' yes ' o' 
* nop,' but that was all. 

" 'N' yet he was mighty kind like — give me tobacco 

'n' papers, 'n' books t' look at. Books ! He was sar- 

tenly hell on books — had th' dod-burned little ol' 

cuijin full o' them, 'nough t" run all the deestrict 

[IV2\ 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

schools in th' hull state o' Texas. Books ! He had long 
ones 'n' short ones, fat ones 'n' thin ones, some in 
leather scabbards 'n' some jest wrapt in paper, lots 

o' them with pictures o' more d n queer things I 

never heerd of than I could tell yer 'bout in a year. 
Books! Why, honest, I reckon that ol' feller 's got 
more books than anybody else in the world, 'n' has 
got so used t' gittin' all his back talk outen them that 
it's jest got t' be onhandy fo' him t' use his tongue 
wi' humans. 

" Wall, finally he gits supper ready, 'n' we eats. 
'N' she was a shore pea-warmer o' a supper, good as 
women-folks's cookin' ; raised hot bread 'n' a puddin' 
that 'd make a puncher jest nachally want t' marry 
'n' live wi' th' cook that made it. 

" After supper I smokes 'n' smokes, while he plumb 
loses his ol' self in a book. 

" Finally, come bed-time, he give me a nice bunk, 
'n' I pulls off my coat, hat, spurs 'n' boots, 'n' gits 
intu th' blankets. 

" Then what 'n hell does yu allow that ol' feller 
AiA? You'd never guess in a thousand year! 'Fore 
that I thought he was jest queer o' his ways, but when 
he did that, I made so sure he was plumb dangerous 
crazy It scairt me so bad I never shet an eye th' hull 
night long." 

[113] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" Nonsense, Tex," I interrupted, " Mack isn't 
crazy," 

" Crazy ! " lie resumed, " it's me tellin' yu he's 

crazy as a d d bedbug, 'n' I got th' goods t' 

prove it ; fo' right thar in th' cabin, befo' me, he pulls 
off every last stitch o' clothes he had on, 'w' then he 
up 'w' puts on his oV carcass a great long white 
woman* s dress reachin' plumb down f his feet, 'w' 
goes f bed in it! Yes, sir, that's jest what he did; I'll 
swear t' it; 'n' I reckon now yu-all '11 admit he's 
crazy ! " 

Dear old brush-bred Tex had never even heard of 
such a thing as a nightgown, and I never was quite 
sure I succeeded in fully convincing him that no in- 
considerable part of humanity always so habited 
themselves for their nightly repose! Certain it was 
that he never got it out of his head that Mack was 
an unsafe intellectual freak. 

The next day I dropped into ranch routine. 

Our most important work was daily range riding, 
to throw l)ack into the range any cattle straying 
from it, and to make sure no depredations by Indians 
or rustlers were going on. 

Our position was unusually exposed. At the time 
tliroiighout its long sweep southeast from the Sweet- 
water in Central Wyoming to Blue Creek in Nebras- 
[114] 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

ka, there were only three herds north of the North 
Platte River — Mack & Peers's outfit on Muskrat, 
Pratt & Ferris twenty-five miles east of me on Raw- 
hide, and mine on Cottonwood, all of us moved in that 
same season. 

To the north two hundred and thirty miles lay the 
then new mining camp of Deadwood, in the heart of 
the Black Hills, with no intervening habitation of 
white men save the stock-tenders' cabins, twelve to 
eighteen miles apart, on the main stage road from 
Cheyenne. 

In those days in isolated Deadwood money was 
often five per cent a month, flour one hundred dollars 
a sack, and beef anything its possessor had nerve 
enough to ask for it. 

Thus our exposed herds were a great temptation 
to the lawless. 

Within a week after my retui'n we discovered our 
" Three Crow " brand (;:^ '^) had been spotted for 
an easy mark, chiefly, I suppose, as the property of 
a tenderfoot. 

First we discovered several head of cattle show- 
ing brand disfigurement, the first two " crows " 
made into " B's," and the third into an " 8," thus 

The disfigurement was so plainly obvious that it 
[115] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

seemed evident the rustlers planned to run a blazer 
on us by undertaking to cut them on the spring 
round-up under cover of a gun bluff. 

Later we came on little branding fires in the rough 
hill country where they had been at work on our cows 
with their running-irons, several times when the 
ashes were still hot, and the rustlers gone barely an 
hour. 

But trail them we could not, for their horses' 
hoofs were heavily padded with gunny-sacks and the 
country was so rocky that even lynx-eyed Tex could 
not follow them. 

Perhaps this brand burning in the heart of our 
range was only a ruse. In any event, we were so keen 
to catch the marauders red-handed at their work that 
for several weeks we neglected our north boundary 
sign riding to scout for the thieves. 

Thus it happened that late one afternoon early in 
February two punchers, who had gone out that morn- 
ing to ride our north line, dashed up to the ranch on 
trembling, steaming horses, with the news they had 
found a trail, about two weeks' old, of seventy odd 
head of cattle driven away into the north by three 
men. 

Plainly they could have but one destination. Dead- 
wood, whtTL', if driven at top speed, as they must have 
[116] 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

been, they were due to arrive the very day we discov- 
ered the theft. 

Thus the only sure chance of saving them lay in a 
dash through to Deadwood by stage-coach before 
they were butchered and the hides safely disposed of. 

At once I decided to take the night coach north, 
due at Canon Springs station, two miles from the 
ranch, at 9 : 00 p.m. 

It was a bitter night, the thermometer forty to 
fifty degrees below zero. That, however, did not 
matter, for I rode over to the station comfort- 
ably bundled in arctics, goat-skin leggings, and 
buffalo overcoat, with a spare buffalo robe for 
my lap. 

Presently we heard the thud of hoofs and the 
crunch of wheels far away through the chill, still 
night; then two lights rose like great stars above a 
hill crest and dimly outlined the team ; then came the 
driver's " Yip ! Yip ! Yip ! " call to the stock-tender, 
and in rolled the old thorough-brace coach and its 
puffing, steaming team of six, with old Tom Cooper 
on the box — Cooper, a famous half-breed driver, who 
lost his life a few years later, by the failure of his 
brakes on a Leadville grade. 

The team was quickly changed, while Tom and I 
had a drink, and then into the coach I climbed, Tom 
[117] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

mounted his box, gathered up the ribbons, cracked 
his whip, and into their collars sprang the fresh team 
at a pace that set the old coach pitching, tossing, and 
pounding like a bark in a storm. 

Tlic coach held only one other passenger, settled in 
a corner of the rear seat. I took the corner beside 
him, wrapped my legs in the spare robe, and com- 
posed myself for a nap. 

But sleep was not for me — immediately. By the 
way he loosely rolled to the pitching of the coach and 
by the odours emanating from his corner, it was soon 
made plain to me my coach mate was comfortably 
drunk. 

And I had little more than time to make the dis- 
covery before he nudged me sharply in the ribs and 
gurgled : 

" Shay, pardner, t'day 's Shunday. Ze Holy Sab- 
bath ! Don' you sink we oughta do shumthing t' cel'- 
brate th' day.? " 

It was, in truth, Sunday, and I agreed with him, 
but suggested we were at the moment lacking all 
usual facilities for any sort of orthodox or unortho- 
dox observance of the day. But this did not in the 
least non-plus my bibulous neighbour. 

" Tell you wha' we'll do,'* he answered ; " I'll betchu 

til' best d n gallon 'r whiskey we can buy in 

[118] 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

Deadwood that I can shing more d n Shunday 

School songs 'n you can, shingin' turn 'bout." 

While startling and, under the terms proposed, 
more of a desecration than an observance of the day, 
it struck me that, partly as a matter of pride and 
partly of duty, I ought to accept his bet. 

He was three fourths drunk, I cold sober, and also 
some years shorter removed from Sunday School days 
than he. He would doubtless sing in a wanton spirit, 
but I could sing in a devout, so long as my reper- 
toire held out. 

So I accepted, and we shook hands on the wager. 

Courteously conceding the opening to me, I sang 
the only Sunday School hymn I felt certain I knew 
from start to finish, " Shall We Gather at the 
River.?" 

Finished, he continued, appropriately it seemed to 
me, with " A Charge to Keep I Have," and never 
missed a line or word, though often driven sadly out 
of time by interloping hiccoughs. 

His turn done, he mumbled : 

" Zalmighty dry work tryin' t' keep Shunday, 
pardner ; le's take a drink." 

And, thinking the sooner 'twas over the sooner I'd 
sleep, we drank. 

Then it was up to me, and I gave him, in my best 
[119] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

form, two verses of " From Greenland's Icy Moun- 
tains," all I could remember, and stopped, certain I 
had lost on tlic second round. 

But instead, cheerfully oblivious to the paucity of 
verses, he made many a vocal stumble through the 
measure of " I Hunger and I Thirst," but dihgently 
skipped no lines. 

And out of deference to the theme of his song, I 
consented to take another drink. 

Here I caught my second wind, though I did not 
hold it long, and contrived to finish all three verses of 
" Watchman, Tell Us of the Night." 

Next he promptly responded with some long-whis- 
kered old residenter of a hymn, gabbling honestly 
through from its beginning to its end. 

And so we went on for more than an hour, I soon 
driven into snatches of operatic airs and comic songs, 
any scrap of musical flotsam still adrift in the current 
of my memory, he sticking faithfully to the text if 
not the tunc of some hoary hymn. 

Memory served him well to the last — to the last 
drop in the bottle, when, after two or three false 
starts at " Laboring and Heavy Laden," he suddenly 
dropped into a snore more rhythmic than his song. 

Late the next morning, while the team was plough- 
ing slowly through the drifts along the valley of Old 
[120] 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

Woman's Fork, he awoke, notably the worse for the 
preceding evening's service, and hazy about its hap- 
penings, but cheerful. 

" Pardner," he remarked, " allow me to hand you 
my respects and acknowledgments. I sure thought 
I was the chief as a hymn whooper, but you beat me 
so easy and done it so hard it would appear to the 
undersigned you must have spent most of your life 
setting atop of a Sunday School organ. The gallon 
is yours, and the cost mine ! " 

And when, to spare his pride of memory, I deli- 
cately hinted that I had been forced to make ex- 
cursions wide afield of any hymn book ever printed, 
and, therefore, was myself the loser of the bet, he 
studied a minute or two, and then blurted out : 

" Well, I will be d d ; pardner, Deadwood gets 

to sell two gallons, and one of them's yours ! " 

All day and night we trundled on, crunching 
through the snow — across the divide to Crazy 
Woman's Fork, down its valley to Lightning Creek, 
down Lance to the Cheyenne River, crossing the 
Cheyenne on the ice and climbing toward the south- 
western buttresses of the Black Hills. 

A little after daylight we breakfasted at Jenny's 
Stockade, and the second afternoon made Deadwood. 

At the stations along the route I had made inquiry 
[121] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

for my quarry, but they had not been seen. Later I 
learned that they had swung farther east and gone 
in over the Custer City trail. 

By evening I had all the information I needed. 
The rustlers had arrived near Deadwood three days 
ahead of me. Three men had brought the cattle in, 
the leader (a bad man with the misleading name of 
Goodfellow !) had sold them to a local butcher, and 
the butcher had driven them out to his winter camp 
on Whitewood Gulch twenty-five miles north, 

Goodfellow and his partners had jumped the town 
the night of the sale, in what direction I could then 
find no one to tell me. 

That night I turned in early at the Grand Central 
Hotel tired and sore from the two days and nights* 
pounding in the coach. My room was narrow as a 
cell, little more than the width of the single bed. 

I was that tired I was wakeful, and, to make sleep 
more difficult, rats were making an awful racket, ap- 
parently in the wall opposite the bed. Getting one of 
my heavy boots by the strap, I struck a violent blow 
at the wall, when boot and arm disappeared through 
the cotton sheeting and paper that alone formed the 
partition, my boot hitting the sleeper in the next 
room a crack in the face that took all my eloquence 
to satisfactorily explain. 

[ 122] 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

Shortly after daylight the next morning I routed 
out the butcher from the lodgings where I had lo- 
cated him the night before. 

Naturally he was anything but glad to meet me, 
and began by disputing my identity and authority 
as owner, for the only credentials I carried were 
wrapped up in whatever modest measure of gall I 
possessed. 

Indeed, he indulged in some very plain war talk, 
and urged me to go where the climate was so far the 
reverse of Deadwood's I doubted if I could stand the 
shock of the change. 

Moreover, I wanted my cattle, or their price, so I 
stuck to him, and finally finished by persuading him 
it would be helpful to his health to breakfast with me 
at the Grand Central and saddle up and ride out with 
me to Whitewood to examine the cattle. 

It was a lonely ride, that twenty-five miles, over a 
little-used trail across thickly timbered hills and 
gulches, a ride I doubtless never would have finished 
had I not required him to ride ahead of me from its 
beginning to its end. 

And a sad pity it was I had so little time to give 
to the local scenery, for it was altogether the most 
beautiful I can recall. 

The day before there had been a rise in temper- 
[123] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

aturc, followed by a heavy sleet storm through the 
night tliat had sheeted all nature in crystal. Then the 
wind had shifted into the north and the temperature 
had dropped to fifty-two degrees below zero, and so 
held all day, leaving the air still as death, not the 
faintest whiff of a breeze. 

It was a savage fairy land we traversed. 

Gaunt rocks, tall pines, broad balsams, slender 
birches, yellow grass all ice-incrusted, gleaming now a 
shimmering white and then reflecting every delicate 
rainbow tint, each separate pinnacle, twig and blade 
a crystal-clad miracle of beauty to make one pause 
in admiring awe. 

But with eyes glued to every move of the grim 
figure in a great bearskin coat jogging along at a 
dog trot ahead of me, all I saw of the scenery was 
what lay straight ahead of me or could be caught out 
of the tail of the eye, for I well knew he would wel- 
come half a chance to beef me and leave me on the 
trail. 

We reached his camp in Whitewood about noon. 

The two men occupying the camp looked tough as 
the wild range life usually makes men naturally of a 
reckless, evil bent, and after the first glance from 
their employer, their lowering looks showed plainly I 
had been tipped to them as an enemy. 
[124] 



WINTERING AMONG RUSTLERS 

They proposed dinner, but the situation was one 
so httle conducive to comfortable dining and the 
effective digestion of one's food that I vetoed the 
dinner and insisted on riding up a near-by side gulch 
where the cattle were ranging. 

Indeed, the trio to me looked so far from good I 
offered six separate arguments, each tightly bound in 
neat brass covers, why it would be better if they left 
all their arms at the camp, arguments so weighty 
that, preferring to see rather than to feel their force, 
they complied. 

Then we rode out and bunched the little herd, and 
there among them, sure enough, were no less than 
seventy-six of my " Three Crow " cows ! 

So far so good, but now I had to make a get-away, 
for the solitude of Whitewood Gulch was no con- 
venient place to debate restitution or settlement. 

This however, proved fairly easy of arrangement, 
for at my request my butcher friend kindly consented 
to tie on his saddle the two rifles and two six-shooters 
belonging to his men and pack them back to Dead- 
wood, and the men were good enough to unsaddle and 
turn loose their two ponies, leaving them free to take 
a good rest before undertaking the all-day task of 
trying afoot to round up and catch fresh mounts ! 

Thus it happened that I was able to follow my 
[125] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

butcher friend back into Deadwood secure against a 
rear attack or a wide circle ahead of us and an am- 
bush by his men. 

There was not much conversation during our re- 
turn ride, for night was nearing, and I so little liked 
a prospect of the butcher for a bed-mate that most 
of the way we hit the trail at a lope. 

Occasional slacking of pace to rest our horses, 
however, made me opportunity for a few remarks he 
took as so pointed that before we parted that night 
he had paid me about twice what the seventy-six cows 
were worth on my own range — and 3'et had a bargain 
at prevailing local prices that easily doubled his total 
investment in " Three Crow " beef. 

A few weeks later Goodfellow and Jack Handlcy 
were run into their holes and the holes plugged up — 
permanently ; the third man escaped to Texas — also 
permanently. 



[ 1J26J 



CHAPTER SEVEN 
A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

TO behold the inroads of autumn upon the foh- 
age of a noble forest ; to watch a rose fade 
and see its withered petals fall to earth; to 
see a beast in its death throes ; to witness the last 
agony of a fellow-mortal, even though he be a stran- 
ger and nothing to you in the world — any of these is 
a sufficiently saddening incident to a man of average 
susceptibility. 

Happily enough, therefore, it has come to few men 
to witness the final dissolution of a people, even 
though that people be a savage tribe every page of 
whose history is dark with deeds of barbarism. Such, 
however, has been my lot, and the scenes, incidents, 
and characters of the dread spectacle are as fresh on 
my mind to-day as if they were of yesterday. 

In the autumn of '77 I bought my first herd of 
cattle at Cooper Lake on Laramie Plains, west of the 
main range of the Rockies. The country lying be- 
tween the Union Pacific Railway and the Platte was 
[127] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

then fairly well stocked and the best ranges occu- 
pied. But, up to that time, the North Platte River 
had stood the dead line between the Sioux and the 
ranchmen, a dead line never crossed by ranchmen, 
except in occasional trailing parties in pursuit (and 
usually a hopeless pursuit) of stolen horses taken 
by the raiding Sioux. 

All of the two thirds of Wyoming lying to the 
north of the North Platte River, all of the two thirds 
of Montana lying to the east of a line drawn through 
Bozeman and Fort Benton, all of the two Dakotas 
west of Fort Pierre and Yankton, and all of the 
northwest quarter of the State of Nebraska — a vast 
area of roughly three hundred thousand square 
miles, greater in extent than all of New England 
with the States of New Jersey, New York, Ohio, 
I'ennsylvania, Virginia, West Virginia, and half of 
Kentucky thrown in — held no white man's habitation, 
save the little camp of miners in the Black Hills, and 
li.ul for its only tenants nomad bands of Cheyennes 
and of Ogallala, Brule and Uncapapa Sioux, the an- 
cient lords of this most noble manor. 

To be sure, a treaty had been had and the Sioux 

title proper was recognised by the Government over 

none of this territory excepting a part of the two 

Dakotas lying west of the Missouri and north of the 

[ 128] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

White River. Thus, technically, the rest of this great 
area was open to occupation and settlement, but it 
was still ranged from end to end by war parties re- 
sentful of the treaty terms, which had taken from 
them the best-beloved part of their domain, the Black 
Hills, and limited them to the wastes of the Dakota 
Bad Lands. 

With the country to the south of the Platte more 
or less crowded with ranches, it was plain the time 
had come when seekers for attractive free ranges 
must venture north of the Platte into the Sioux do- 
main ; and bar one ranch located by Pratt & Ferris 
immediately on the Platte River to the east of Fort 
Laramie, I was the first man to carry a herd of cattle 
into the heart of the Sioux country, and there locate 
and permanently maintain a ranch. 

Starting from Cooper Lake on Laramie Plains 
rather late in the autumn of '77, trailing through 
the Rockies, by Collin's Cut Off, to the Sabille, thence 
down to the Laramie River, and down the Laramie 
to Butch Phillips's ranch, I there crossed to the 
Platte River, and we were fortunate enough to arrive 
in time to swim it the very night before it froze 
over. 

With the cold weather come on, it became imper- 
ative to go into winter quarters, and we wintered on 
[129] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

the Cottonwood, twelve miles northwest of Fort 
Laramie. 

In October, '77, over twelve thousand Ogallala 
Sioux were removed from their old agency on White 
River, a mile east of Fort Robinson, to Bijou Hill, 
on the Missouri, only to be moved back a year later 
to what still remains their present agency, between 
Wounded Knee and White Clay Creeks. 

In the months of January and February, accom- 
panied by two men, I made a scouting trip to the 
north and east down the Niobrara to Pine Creek, 
crossing north to White River and thence back by 
the head of White River to my winter camp on the 
Cottonwood, a journey of sixty days without meeting 
a single white man! 

With my future location decided by this trip, so 
soon as the cattle could be gathered in the spring, I 
moved one hundred miles north of the Platte River, 
and took up and occupied White River from its head 
down to Fort Robinson, twenty miles, and also twenty 
miles of the Niobrara, averaging fourteen miles to the 
south of the White River range. 

This territory embraced the very heart of what 
had been the favourite home camping ground of the 
main band of Ogallala Sioux for generations. In- 
deed, the head of White River was, bar none, the most 
[130] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

beautiful country I have ever seen In the West, a roll- 
ing hill country, open timbered with pines like a 
, park ; with springs of clear, cold water breaking out 
in almost every gulch ; with tall, white limestone cliffs 
to north and south that gave the valley perfect shel- 
ter against winter storms, and all the land matted 
thick with juicy buffalo grass. 

The home ranch I located on Dead Man's Creek, a 
small tributary of the White River five miles south of 
Fort Robinson. 

While chosen only for its value as a ranch site, 
this location proved the most fortunate choice I could 
have made. The Sioux name of the Creek was 
Wi-nogl-waka-pala, meaning " Ghost Creek;" or 
" Dead Man's Creek," and we later learned that the 
Sioux had such a superstitious dread of it that no 
Indian ever ventured near Dead Man's Creek at 
night. This superstition came from the tradition of 
a camp of Indians on the Dead Man many years be- 
fore which was attacked by a contagion so deadly 
that not enough living were left to bury the dead. 
Thus it happened that, while we could never abate 
our watchfulness, no night raid upon this ranch or 
the horse herd ranging near was ever made by the 
Sioux, while ranches far to the south of mine suffered 
often and severely. 

[131] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Fort Robinson was then a little two-company gar- 
rison, which had been built at the close of the Sitting 
BuU campaign of 1876, at the junction of Soldier 
Creek and White River, built really to help to awe 
and hold in check the restless Ogallala Sioux, whose 
agency then lay a mile down the river from the Fort. 

But this story deals with the Sioux only incident- 
ally. 

The people whose virtual extermination I came to 
witness were the Northern Cheyennos, belonging to 
Dull Knife's band, captured on Chadron Creek by 
Capt. J. B. Johnson, of the Third Cavalry, in Oc- 
tober, '78, and held as prisoners in barracks at Fort 
Robinson until January, 1879. 

The band numbered one hundred and forty-nine 
people, of whom forty were warriors. Their capture 
by Johnson was the closing scene of the most remark- 
able campaign in the history of Indian warfare. 

The Chcyennes were natives of these same plains 
and mountains, highlanders whose hereditary domain 
embraced the magnificent ranges of the Big Horn and 
the Black Hills ; here through generations were they 
born, here their dead were buried. Allied more or less 
with the Sioux, intermarried with them to some ex- 
tent, here they dwelt and maintained themselves 
against all comers in a veritable aboriginal's para- 
[ 132 ] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

dise, the plains alive with buffalo and antelope, the 
mountains full of deer, elk, mountain-sheep and bear, 
the streams swarming with fish, and everywhere a 
thick carpet of juicy buffalo grass that kept their 
ponies fat as seals. Numerically weaker than the 
Sioux, they were an infinitely bolder and more war- 
like race. 

But at last, in 1876, came the fatal day that sooner 
or later arrived for all Indian titles — that which the 
Pale Face most covets was discovered in the very 
heart of their domain ; gold was found in the Black 
Hills, and miners began to stream in. This part of 
the story was well told by General Brisbane (then 
commanding Fort Ellis) in an interview with a news- 
paper correspondent: 

** That the Indians do not make war unless pressed, 
you, as a resident here since 1870, must admit. You 
remember my first operation here after my arrival 
in 1876? I allude to the rescue of the garrison at 
Fort Pease, at the mouth of the Big Horn. Some 
forty whites had left Bozeman and located in the 
heart of Sitting Bull's country, and without any 
authority in the world had built a fort there. The 
Sioux and Cheyennes attacked, and were on the 
point of capturing It, when the besieged men ap- 
[ 133] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

pealed to me for aid. Sitting Bull had one thousand 
five hundred warriors, and we had only four hundred 
men, but we hastened to relieve the settlement. He 
could have beaten us, but, doubtless thinking it best 
to permit the removal of the cause of the trouble, he 
drew off, only too glad to see the departure of the 
intruders. I had hardly again reached Fort Ellis, 
when I was notified of the approach of General Gib- 
bon with seven companies of infantry from one direc- 
tion, and General Terry, and Custer with his regi- 
ment, from another. We all returned to Sitting Bull's 
country — then the Big Horn and Rosebud fights oc- 
curred." 

At the first encroachment on their reservation the 
Indians had petitioned the Government for protec- 
tion. As usual, the petition was " read and referred." 
Meantime their country was being invaded. Small 
parties of venturesome miners were coming into the 
Black Hills from Fort Pierre on the east, Chey- 
enne and Sidney on the south, and Bozeman on the 
west. 

For a time the Indians waited patiently for the 

Government to interfere in their behalf. Had they 

considered the long, shameful story of the treatment 

of the red race by the white, they probably would 

[134] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

not have waited so long. Instead of help, more miners 
came. 

At last, losing hope of any aid, they went the way 
all people go in one manner or another directly they 
find themselves being despoiled — they went to war. 

War parties attacked the trespassing whites. 
Quickly the wires brought to the East stories of 
Indian atrocities, and soon two military columns were 
set in motion to crush those whom they should rather 
have been sent to protect. 

This was the origin of the '76 campaign, in which 
the gallant Custer and his brave Seventh were wiped 
out, and which ended in the defeat of Sitting Bull and 
the capture of Crazy Horse's Sioux and Dull Knife's 
Cheyennes. 

Then we had a treaty, and the Sioux and Chey- 
ennes " ceded " the Black Hills to the Government. 
With proper prompt action in the beginning, this 
" cession " might have been negotiated with honour to 
the Government and satisfaction to the Indians, and 
the Seventh spared their terrible sacrifice. 

In rude old feudal days when they took a man's 
land, they usually hacked off his head. But the rude 
old feudal customs, convenient though they may be, 
quite shock modern sensibilities. Thus the then-ruling 
humanitarians of the Indian Bureau decided that Dull 
[135] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Knife's Cheycnncs, who were the boldest and most 
independent of tlie lot, should be removed six hundred 
miles south to the Indian Territory, a country and 
climate with no pleasing prospect for them unless of 
an early and certain translation — by disease and 
death — to the Happy Hunting Grounds which repre- 
sent the future paradise of the red man. 

So away they were marched in 1877 to Fort Reno, 
a grim band of warriors, squaws and papooses, their 
robes, parfleches and other rude equipment trailing 
on travois. 

Their war chief was Dull Knife; two senior chiefs, 
Old Crow and Wild Hog; the junior war chief, Little 
Wolf. 

Dull Knife had a history worth telling, but suffice 
it here to say that all army officers who encountered 
him held high esteem for his generalship and indomi- 
table courage. 

Unaccustomed to the enervating climate of the 
south, they rapidly fell its victims. Easy prey to the 
fevers there prevalent, it was not long before there 
was scarcely a lodge free from the shrill death chant 
of mourners and the dull roar of the medicine tom- 
tom. 

Out of two hundred and thirty-five bucks who ar- 
rived at Fort Reno in August, 1877, twenty-eight 
[ 136 ] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

died within a twelvemonth, while the mortality among 
the women and children was greater still. 

The head men of the tribe appealed to the Govern- 
ment. They pleaded as men can only plead for life. 
They showed that they were dying like sheep on their 
new reservation. They begged to be permitted to 
return to their old home in the highlands of the 
north. They promised to be obedient and peaceful if 
allowed to return. 

To be sure, it was an Indian promise, and the Gov- 
ernment had gotten in the bad habit of discrediting 
Indian promises, notwithstanding the indisputable 
fact of history that, once frankly pledged, the Indian 
faith has rarely been broken. 

Therefore their prayer was denied, and they were 
told to content themselves where they were. 

As a piece of humanity, this decision was like telling 
a well man to sleep with a leper ; as public policy, like 
courting war; as justice, like robbing a man of his 
home, and then compelling him to dwell roofless in an 
atmosphere of contagion. 

However, it was the decision, a decision from 
which the Cheyennes possessed only one right of ap- 
peal — the appeal to arms — and they took it. 

This was the raison d'etre of the Cheyenne out- 
break of '78. 

[ 137 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

It was a campaign begun early in September of 
1878, far south on the banks of the Canadian River, 
in the (then) Indian Territory, now Oklahoma, and 
only finished when, late in October, Little Wolf, with 
the younger and stronger members of Dull Knife's 
band, although constantly pursued and intercepted 
by troops, had successfully fought his way through 
four great military lines of interception — which in- 
cluded all the troops the War Department was able 
to put in the field against him — to the complete es- 
cape and safety of a junction with Sitting Bull's 
Uncapapa Sioux in the British northwest territory, 
one thousand miles to the north ; and when Dull 
Knife and the elders of the tribe, entirely spent of 
strength and ammunition, were captured in the Nio- 
brara sand hills of Northern Nebraska, six hundred 
miles from their starting-point — a campaign that for 
generalship and strategy, for boldness of conception 
and sheer, desperate, reckless courage of execution, 
surpasses in every detail even the famous outbreak of 
the Ncz Perccs under Chief Joseph, or of the Apaches 
under Victoria ; a campaign inspired by a holy pur- 
pose no man who knows the love of fatherland can 
gainsay, if ever warfare had a holy purpose in this 
world. 

To be sure they left a trail red with the blood of 
[138] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

many an innocent victim, gray with the ashes of many 
a plundered ranch and farmhouse. Still they were 
only savages, fighting according to the traditions of 
their race. 

DULL KNIFE JUMPS THE RESERVATION 

It was the ninth of September, 1878. 

Night had fallen over the Valley of the Canadian, 
one of those clear, bright nights of early autumn on 
the plains when the stars seem hovering about the 
tops of the cottonwoods. The moon was nearly full, 
for the savage, much of whose strategy is learned 
from the wild beast, chooses the night — and always a 
moonlight night — for his forays. No Indian ever 
sought the war-path in the dark of the moon. 

The Cheyenne camp was pitched in the valley, at 
some distance from the fort. 

The tall tepees, gleaming gray in the moonlight, 
stood in clusters in a narrow belt of cottonwoods that 
lined the stream. 

Usually at this hour an Indian village was bright 
with the flames of camp fires and noisy with romping 
children, above whose piping voices from time to time 
rose the weird, monotonous chant of some old folk- 
lore song of the race, recounting the world-old story 
of dangers doughtily withstood by heroes gone long 
[139] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

before; groups of warriors lounged about the camp 
fires, the elders spinning yarns of the chase and the 
raid, stories of hunting, of war, and of love that 
stirred the young bucks mightily. 

But this night, while there was an unwonted activ- 
ity in the camp, there was no noise. 

The great herd of ponies, usually grazing out on 
the divide where the juicy buffalo grass grows thick, 
had been quietly brought into the camp. 

Men, women, and youths were rapidly but silently 
lariating their mounts and adjusting their rude 
bridles and saddles. 

This finished, they attacked the tepees. Tall, grim, 
blanketed figures bent quickly to the work. The buf- 
falo robe or canvas covering of the tepees was soon 
stripped off the poles, rolled and packed on the 
ponies. 

The tepee poles were left standing, for the prepa- 
rations making were as well for a flight as a fight. 
The column must travel light ; no needless impedi- 
menta could be taken, and there would be no time to 
set up tepees on this march. 

The few poor stores at their disposal were soon 
stowed in parflechcs and tied on the pack animals. 
Then the colunm was ready to move. 

Papooses were quickly slung in the slack of the 
[ 140] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

blanket on the mothers' backs and the mothers mount- 
ed ; the children were tossed up astride behind their 
mothers ; the bucks tightened their belts, slung their 
arms, and swung swiftly into the saddle ; and the col- 
umn, in loose, irregular order, with seldom more than 
two or three riding abreast, moved softly out of 
camp, headed northward on as desperate a sortie as 
forlorn hope ever drove men to. 

Dawn came at last. A sleepy sentinel on post 
yawned, rubbed his eyes, and walked to the edge of the 
bluff, where he could look down on the Cheyenne 
camp. 

But presto ! the camp had disappeared. Only the 
ghost of a camp remained, for where had stood the 
gleaming canvas of the tepees naught appeared but 
the gaunt pole skeletons of these primitive habita- 
tions. 

The sentry quickly called the sergeant of the 
guard ; he, the officer of the day ; he, the commanding 
officer. 

The " assembly " was promptly sounded. A patrol 
was ordered out, a patrol which soon reported a de- 
serted village and a trail leading straight away 
across the divide toward the north! The story was 
told in trooper's brusque phrase: 

" Dull Knife's jumped the reservation." 
[141] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

No time was lost. Within half an hour two troops 
of cavalry rode out of Fort Reno on the trail. 

The chase was on. 

And what a hopeless chase none but an old trooper 
or frontiersman familiar with Indian methods and 
troopers' limitations can realise. 

The trooper was always at a disadvantage. He had 
only his single mount, accustomed to high grain feed- 
ing and stable care, that quickly went footsore and 
lost condition in such a pursuit. Once afoot, the 
trooper could not forage on the country for a fresh 
mount. 

A band of Indians, on the other hand, always car- 
ried with them a herd of loose ponies. They rode at 
great speed, they rode on and yet on till their mounts 
fell from fatigue. The throats of the fagged beasts 
were then quickly cut, to prevent their falling into 
the hands of pursuers, fresh mounts caught, and 
the flight resumed. Their own supply of fresh horses 
exhausted, the band then raided ranches and farms 
for others. 

By these means, extraordinary marches were made. 
At the time of the last outbreak of Geronimo from 
the San Carlos Reservation, his first march covered 
one lumdrt'd and forty miles without a halt! 

This small initial pursuing colunm was the least 
[142] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

difficulty Dull Knife had to contend with. The out- 
break had instantly been telegraphed by Colonel Miz- 
ner, commanding at Fort Reno, through the usual 
official channels, to the War Department. Dull 
Knife's skill and daring as a leader were only too well 
known to the Department. Instantly the whole avail- 
able force of the United States Army was set in mo- 
tion to effect his capture. Within a few days no less 
than two thousand troops, seasoned veterans trained 
in the great Sioux-Cheyenne War of 1876, had taken 
the field against Dull Knife. To accomplish this, 
three departments of the army were drawn upon ; and 
from Cantonment in the Big Horn Mountains of 
Montana to Camp Supply in the Indian Territory, 
from Omaha to Salt Lake, grim columns were moving 
to crush or subdue this handful of hostiles. 

General Pope, commanding the Department of the 
Missouri, directed the immediate pursuit. 

September 12, 1878, he reported to General Sheri- 
dan: 

" The following dispositions have been made to in- 
tercept the Northern Cheyennes : One hundred mount- 
ed infantrymen leave by special train to-morrow 
for Fort Wallace to head off the Indians if they cross 
the railroad east or west of that post. Two companies 
[143] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

of Infantry leave Hays this evening to take post at 
two noted crossings of Indians on the Kansas Pacific 
between Hays and Wallace. One infantry company 
from Dodge is posted on the railroad west of that 
point. Two cavalry companies from Reno are close 
on the Indians, and will be joined by the cavalry com- 
pany from Supply. Colonel Lewis will assume com- 
mand of them as soon as they reach the vicinity of 
Dodge. The troops at Fort Lyon arc ordered to 
watch the country east and west of that post. . . . 
All are ordered to attack the Indians wherever found 
unless they surrender at once, in which case they are 
to be dismounted and disarmed. Whatever precau- 
tions are possible should be taken on the line of the 
Platte." 

The same day witnessed similar activity in the De- 
partment of the Platte. Four companies, under Cap- 
tains Burrowes, Bowman, Brisbin, and Trotter of the 
Fourth, Ninth, and Fourteenth Infantry, were or- 
dered to rendezvous at Sidney, Nebraska, on the U. P. 
II. R., whence scouts were to be kept out on watch 
for the hostilcs, and a special train was kept in con- 
stant readiness to carry the troops east or west. 

September 14th General Crook hurried west- 
ward over the Union Pacific to direct operations, and 
[ ^^i ] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

Major T. T. Thornburg took command of the troops 
at Sidney. 

Meantime, the Cheyennes were pushing forward 
night and day, steahng horses, ravaging the country, 
and kilhng all who came in their path. Notwithstand- 
ing the presence of their women and children, they 
were making fifty to seventy miles a day, and the pur- 
suers, struggle as they might, seemed to be on a 
hopeless stern chase. 

It was believed at the time in the Department of 
the Platte that Dull Knife had been in communication 
with Sitting Bull, and that a consolidation of forces 
had been planned. This sufficiently points the high 
estimate placed by experienced army officers of the 
day upon the daring and generalship of Dull Knife ; 
for at the time Sitting Bull and his band of hostiles 
were in the mountains between Calgary and McLeod, 
in the British Northwest Territory, one thousand 
miles from Fort Reno ! 

The hostiles were reported checked by the troops 
at a point twenty miles from Fort Wallace, Kansas, 
on the 16th of September. This, however, proved a 
mistake, for on the 18th a detachment of Dull Knife's 
band fought a desperate engagement with two com- 
panies of the Fourth Cavalry, and fifteen cowboys 
near Dodge City. In this fight several Indians were 
[ 145] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

captured, and many were wounded on both sides. But 
the Cheyenncs succeeded in beating off the troops and 
resumed their flight to the northwest. 

Of their mastery in this engagement tliey left be- 
liind them terrible evidence in the smoking ruins of 
several houses no more than three miles from Dodge 
City. 

Notwithstanding the cordon of troops stretched 
along the Kansas Pacific Railway from Fort Wallace 
eastward, on the 20th it was reported that the main 
band of the Cheyennes had skilfully eluded tiie 
troops, had crossed the railway, and were rapidly 
advancing against the second line of military inter- 
ception on the Union Pacific Railway, north of the 
South Platte River. 

On the second line of interception, General Crook 
had concentrated every available man of his depart- 
ment ! Plere the Cheyennes were certainly to be 
stopped, but, knowing well and highly valuing Dull 
Knife's generalship and resolution, the veteran Crook 
took no chances, and ordered General Bradley, at 
Fort Robinson, one hundred and twenty-five miles 
north of the Union Pacific Railway, to hold his 
command in readiness for an emergency order, and 
directed General Wesley P. Merritt, of the Fifth 
Cavalry, to move his command down the flanks of the 
[ 146] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

Big Horn Mountains to the vicinity of Fort McKin- 
ney, Wyoming, one hundred miles to the northwest 
of Robinson ! 

A correspondent on the ground at the time wrote 
to the Herald: 

" These Cheyennes are considered the finest horse- 
men in America ; they ride their animals as if glued 
to them, and load and fire with the precision of foot 
soldiers. Besides this they have the bravery which 
comes from desperation and continued ill-treatment. 
It is more than suspected things were rotten at their 
agency, and they preferred to fight rather than 
starve." 

A band of two hundred Northern Cheyennes under 
Little Chief was brought into Sidney, September 
16th, by the Seventh Cavalry. They were being es- 
corted, virtually as prisoners, from their homes in the 
North to the Cheyenne Reservation at Fort Reno. 
September 22d General Crook held a council with 
them. Little Chief said : 

" We are sorry to hear of the outbreak of our 

people. Many of our relatives must be killed. We do 

not propose to join them, but we hear we are going 

to a poor country where the Indian dies. We are 

[ 147 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

leaving our own hunting grounds in the Black Hills 
where we were born, where our fathers are buried, 
and we are sad." 

From this speech it would seem that Little Chief's 
character justified his name; he had none of Dull 
Knife's greatness of soul and iron courage. 

September 28th Dull Knife fought his fifth en- 
gagement with the troops since leaving Reno — five 
fights in a fortnight! The battle occurred in the 
Canon of Famished Woman's Fork, near Fort Wal- 
lace. 

Lieutenant-Colonel W. H. Lewis, Nineteenth In- 
fantry, commanded the troops. 

The battle lasted two hours. 

The fighting was desperate. 

When leading a line of skirmishers within one hun- 
dred and fifty yards of the enemy, Colonel Lewis's 
horse was shot under him. Disengaging himself from 
his fallen mount, he seized a carbine and advanced 
with his line. Fifty yards farther on a ball cut the 
femoral artery in his left leg, and he quickly bled to 
death. 

Lewis was an experienced Indian fighter of a noble 
record in the desperate plains service of those days, 
and greatly mourned by all who knew him. 

At niglitfall the Indians withdrew, leaving one 
[148] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

dead warrior and seventeen dead ponies on the field. 
Besides the loss of Colonel Lewis, three troopers were 
wounded. 

Still the indomitable band held their northward 
course, fighting for freedom and fatherland. 

October 2d two separate engagements were fought 
by detached bands of the Cheyennes. In one engage- 
ment Lieutenant Broderick, of the Twenty-third 
Infantry, was wounded, and Corporal Stewart, of 
Company I, and five soldiers were killed; in the 
other, a hand-to-hand fight between Indians and 
ranchmen, eighteen ranchmen were killed and five 
wounded. The bodies of the dead were brought into 
Buffalo station. As usual, the Indians carried off 
their dead and wounded, and their losses were un- 
known. Most of the dead ranchmen were settlers on 
the Beaver, Sappa, and Frenchman Creeks. 

Scouts from Thornburg's command on October 
3d sighted a band of Cheyennes on the Frenchman, 
and estimated their number at two hundred and fifty, 
sixty armed bucks. 

In the three days previous the Cheyennes had 
stolen two hundred and fifty horses and left sixty 
dead or worn out behind them on the trail. 

At high noon of October 4th the splendid old 
general, Dull Knife, having assembled his scattered 
[149] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

columns into one body, boldly forded the South Platte 
River, and led his main command north across the 
Union Pacific Railway, a half mile east of the town 
of Ogallala, Neb. As quickly as the Indians were 
sighted, the news was wired to Sidney, and by 4 p.m. 
Thornburg had arrived with his command at Ogal- 
lala, and immediately struck out on Dull Knife's 
trail. Shortly thereafter he was followed by the com- 
mand of Captain Mauck, who had been pursuing the 
Indians constantly since Lewis's death in Famished 
Woman's Canon. 

Astoimded and dismayed by Dull Knife's march- 
ing and desperate fighting, General Crook began to 
feel uncertain whenever and wherever the old chief 
could be brought to a final stand. 

This same day, therefore, he ordered Major Carl- 
ton's five troops of the Third Cavalry to leave Fort 
Robinson, scout the Niobrara Sand Hills, and try to 
intercept and hold the Cheyennes until Thornburg's 
column could overtake and strike their rear, and also 
ordered into the field ten troops of the Seventh Cav- 
alry, then in cantonment at Bear Butte (now Fort 
Mead), Dakota, on the northeast edge of the Black 
Hills, nearly two hundred miles to the north of Carl- 
ton, to form the fourth I'me of mil'itarij harrier 
against Dull Kvife^s advance! 
[150] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

Two days later (October 6th), despatches came in 
from Thornburg reporting his column sixty miles 
north of Ogallala in the midst of terrible sand hills, 
wherein, after leaving the North Platte, they had 
travelled thirty miles without water. No Indians 
had been seen, and the trails indicated that they were 
scattered in all directions, singly and in pairs, scat- 
tered like a flock of quail, for concealment and rest. 

Thus further immediate pursuit became hopeless. 
The Nebraska Sand Hills were then and are still a 
great, trackless waste, in extent ninety miles north 
and south by two hundred miles east and west, bound- 
ed on the south by the Platte River, and on the north 
by the Niobrara — a veritable Sahara of loose, drift- 
ing sands in which horse or man sinks ankle-deep at 
every step ; an arid, desert region affording no water 
except in a few isolated lakes ; a region impossible to 
know because the landmark of one day is removed by 
the winds of the next ; a weird, mysterious, awful 
country, in which, looking south, one sees naught but 
an endless sea of yellow, rolling sand waves, while 
turning and looking to the north, the eye takes in 
a limitless expanse of waving red-top grass, higher 
than one's stirrups. How pursue hostiles in such a 
country? It was clearly impossible. 

In this dilemma Major Carlton, of the Third Cav- 
[151] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

airy, who had reached Dog Lake, south of Niobrara, 
was directed to march his column back north and 
patrol the divide between the Niobrara and White 
River, in an attempt to prevent a junction of the 
Cheyennes with Red Cloud's Ogallala Sioux, then on 
their agency on White Clay Creek. 

LITTLE WOLF'S ESCAPE AND DULL KNIFE'S 
CAPTURE 

Late in September I had ridden into Cheyenne 
from the ranch to buy and bring out the winter sup- 
plies for my outfit, and there first learned of the Chey- 
enne outbreak. Naturally more or less anxiety was felt 
by men having ranches north of the Platte, but with 
the great number of troops in the field, news was ex- 
pected from day to day that the Cheyennes had been 
rounded up and captured. When, however, on the 
afternoon of October 5th, news arrived that Dull 
Knife's main war party had crossed the Union Pacific 
at Ogallala, it became plain that temporising must 
cease and the time for action had come ; so, leaving 
instructions that no supplies should be forwarded 
until after peace was restored and the safety of the 
trails assured, I struck out northward on the morn- 
ing of the .5th, alone. 

My mount for the journey, fortunately, was the 
[152] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

best cow pony I ever owned or ever saw ; a square- 
built, short-backed, deep-barrelled, dark red bay, with 
great, blazing eyes, alert and watchful as any of his 
long line of wild mustang ancestors ; a horse whose 
favourite gait was a low, swift, daisy-clipping lope, 
easy as a rocking-chair to the rider, and no more 
tiring to the beast than a trot to an average pony — 
good old " ND " ! 

Early in the afternoon ND and I made the Dater 
Ranch on Bear Creek, fifty miles north from Chey- 
enne, the last cattle ranch between Cheyenne and my 
place. 

Next morning, starting at dawn, before sunrise, 
having no trails, and striking straight across country 
through Goshen's Hole, we swam the Platte, and by 
noon had reached the ranch of Nick Janisse, lying 
on the north bank of the Platte, twenty-eight miles 
east of Fort Laramie. 

Janisse was an old French voyageur squaw man, 
who had lived and traded thirty years among the 
Sioux, and who had then been for some years settled 
in this isolated valley, within a stout-walled sod 
stockade. 

I had expected to spend the night with Janisse, 
but shortly after my arrival his son-in-law, a half- 
breed named Louis Changro, rode in from the east 
[153] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

with tlic news that he had seen a party of eighteen 
Cheyenne bucks about fifteen miles east of the ranch, 
heading northwest directly into the hill country be- 
tween Sheep Creek and the head of Snake Creek, 
which I had to cross to get home — this evidently a 
small scouting party sent out ahead by Dull Knife. 

Of course it was madness to expect to cross in day- 
light the seventy-six intervening miles between Jan- 
isse's ranch and mine, with Cheyenne scouts out, 
although it was probable that they were prowling 
ahead more in the hope of rounding up fresh ranch 
horses than anything else. 

I therefore decided the ride home must be made 
that night. 

Although the task was a heavy one for a horse that 
had already done his forty-five miles in the forenoon, 
I felt old ND could make it. 

Just at twilight a tremendous thunderstorm broke, 
very conveniently, for the moon was not due to rise 
until after ten o'clock. 

As soon as it was dark we struck out on an old 
United States Government waggon trail long disused, 
which I would never have been able to follow but for 
the constant flashes of lightning. Luckily the storm 
held until time for the moon to rise, and by that time 
we were getting up out of the valley of Sheep Creek 
[ 154.] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

upon the drier uplands, where I could let out ND 
into the free, easy stride he loved. 

We had only one alarm throughout the night. 
Toward midnight, relying more on ND's alert watch- 
fulness than my own, tired and dozing comfortably in 
the saddle (a knack all cowboys know and practise 
when travelling a trail), suddenly old ND made a 
bound to one side that nearly unseated me. 

Of course I could fancy nothing but Cheyennes, 
but, jerking my pistol and looking quickly round 
about in the dim moonlight, could see nothing. 

Still old ND shied away as if in deadly fear of 
something behind him on the ground, and, looking 
closely back, I was surprised to see a skunk following 
us, literally charging after us as if mad — and mad I 
have no doubt he was, as often have I heard of men 
being bitten, while sleeping on the plains at night, 
by these little animals, and later dying with all symp- 
toms of hydrophobia. Hesitating to take the chance 
of stirring up some marauding neighbour by shoot- 
ing my little pursuer, I gave ND his head and we 
soon left him behind. 

Few greater performances by horseflesh than old 

ND achieved that night are recorded, for when, a 

httle after dawn the next morning, we reached the 

Deadman home ranch, old ND had completed one 

[155] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

hundred and twenty-one miles between sun and sun, 
and had done it without quirt or spur. 

With the garrison only five miles away and a mili- 
tary wire to the railroad, I found the boys already 
had news of the approaching enemy, and learned that 
Johnson's and Thompson's troops of the Third Cav- 
alry were patrolling the heart of my range from 
Robinson to the head of White River, and were 
scouting daily for the approaching Cheyennes. 

Two days after my arrival, October 8th, two of 
my cowboys reported to the garrison having seen 
Indians on Crow Butte, two miles east of our ranch, 
signalling to the southeast with looking-glasses, and 
dense clouds of smoke were seen to the north in tlic 
direction of Hat Creek, the smoke signalling prol)- 
ably the work of the little scouting party Changro 
had seen crossing the Platte on the 5th. 

Late in the night of the 13th, a little band of 
hostiles raided Clay Deer's store at the old Red Cloud 
Agency, a mile east of Fort Robinson, and success- 
fully got away with all of his horses, escaping safely 
south to Crow Butte; and the Sioux scouts told us 
all that saved our horses on Deadman was the In- 
dians' superstitious dread of venturing into the valley 
of Wi-nogi-waka-pala at night. 

The next day patrols of troopers reported to Rob- 
[156] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

inson that the main band of hostiles was encamped 
on the summit of Crow Butte, the most natural point 
of defence for a desperate final stand in all the coun- 
try for one hundred miles round about — a high, 
isolated butte, in ancient times an outer buttress of 
the tall range of hills rising above the White River 
Valley to the south, worn by erosion until it stood 
a detached peak, precipitous on all sides and acces- 
sible even to footmen only at one point. 

Four troops of cavalry were promptly sent to sur- 
round Crow Butte, arriving near nightfall at its 
lower slopes. 

The position was one impossible of direct assault, 
and therefore pickets were set at short intervals sur- 
rounding the butte. Then the commanding officer laid 
himself comfortably down to rest, with the happy 
certainty it had fallen to his lot to be the lucky one 
to succeed in entrapping Dull Knife and his redoubt- 
able band. 

But the Indian hosts were by no means yet ready 
to become hostages, and thus it fell out that when 
morning came it was found the band had flown — had 
slipped quietly through the picket lines at night and 
were far away to the north. 

Later it was learned that this band was led by the 
junior war chief. Little Wolf, and comprised some- 
[157] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

thing over two hundred of the younger and stronger 
members of the band who were still able to travel and 
to fight. 

Before scattering in the sand hills a council had 
been held, for the situation of the Cheyennes had be- 
come utterly desperate. Here they were beyond the 
settlements, with no more ranches to raid for horses, 
food, or ammunition. All were worn and exhausted by 
the march, until it was apparent that the elders of 
the band would be powerless to fight their way 
through to Canada, unless through some diversion. 
It was, therefore, decided that Little Wolf should 
lead the stronger on a last desperate dash for the 
liberty they hoped to find somewhere in the north, 
while the elders should rest themselves in the hope 
the main pursuit might be led off by Little Wolf, 
leaving the elders able to slip through later unob- 
served. 

Successfully eluding the Bear Butte column and 
still another barrier of troops situated along the 
Yellowstone, Little Wolf led his band safely through, 
without the loss of another man, to a junction with 
Sitting Bull, across the Canadian border. 

1'his march is not excelled in the annals of war- 
fare. It covered a distance of more than one thousand 
miles in less than fifty days, with a column encum- 
[158] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

bered with women and children, every step of the 
trail contested by all the troops of the United States 
Army that could be concentrated to oppose them; a 
march that struck and parted like ropes of sand the 
five great military barriers interposed across their 
path: the first across the Kansas-Pacific Railway, 
commanded by General Pope ; the second along the 
Union Pacific Railroad in Nebraska, commanded by 
General Crook; the third along the Niobrara, com- 
manded by General Bradley ; the fourth the Bear 
Butte (Seventh Cavalry) column, stretched east from 
the Black Hills ; the fifth along the Yellowstone, com- 
manded by General Gibbon. 

In the early evening of the 14th, we of the Dead- 
man Ranch were anything but easy in our minds or 
certain how long we might continue to wear our hair. 

Early in the afternoon Tobacco Jake, one of my 
cowboys, had brought the news that the main band 
of the Cheyennes lay on Crow Butte, two miles to the 
east of us. 

Immediately we circled and rounded up all our 
horses and put them under guard within our strong- 
est stockaded corral. The Indians were so desperate 
for fresh mounts we felt certain of an attack — certain 
that even their dread of the haunting spirits with 
which their savage superstition had peopled the valley 
[159] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

of Wi-nogi-waka-pala would not prevent them from 
making a fight to take our fat ponies. 

It was therefore a relief when one of the guards 
entered my room about 10 p.m. and reported a body 
of men coming up the valley, who, in the moonlight, 
appeared to him to be marching in such regular 
order he felt sure they were soldiers. 

This proved to be true, and presently arrived be- 
fore the ranch a sergeant and ten men of Troop B, 
with two Sioux scouts. Woman's Dress and Red 
Shirt, the sergeant bringing me a note from dear old 
Jack Johnson, saying that, while he felt we were 
quite able to take care of ourselves, it seemed to him 
expedient to give us reinforcements to help defend 
our horses, the lifting of which by the Cheyennes 
would add enormously to the difficulty of subduing 
the band. 

From this most welcome increase to our little 
force, I doubled the guards around ranch and cor- 
rals, and we retired in perfect ease of mind, for the 
ranch was so placed as to command an open plain 
on all sides for three or four hundred yards, with- 
out cover for an attacking party, and so we were 
warned against a hostile approach ; we felt entirely 
secure behind our loopholed log walls. 

This night and the next day passed without in- 
[160] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

cident, and we later learned that Little Wolf had been 
so closely Invested by troops he could not venture 
upon a foray. 

The next week was Indeed an anxious one, for It 
was known that approximately a third of the Chey- 
ennes still remained grouped or scattered In the 
sand hills a few miles to the southeast of us. 

White River was lined with patrols of troopers, 
from the head down to Chadron Creek, watching for 
Dull Knife's advance. He could not go south, for 
Thornburg lay behind him ; he could not go east or 
west, for lack of water — he must come north. 

During this week Dull Knife succeeded In getting 
runners through with messages to Red Cloud, of 
whom, in Dull Knife's name, they besought aid. 

They pleaded the blood ties which existed between 
many of their families. They pleaded the ancient alli- 
ance of the two tribes In many a bloody fray with 
their common enemies, the Crows, the Pawnees, and 
the whites. But wise old Red Cloud was even a greater 
statesman than warrior, and had realised long years 
before the utter hopelessness of resisting the whites. 
Indeed, had his counsels prevailed against those of 
Sitting Bull, the campaign of '76 had never hap- 
pened. Thus, Dull Knife's messengers returned with 
nothing better than words of sympathy and advice 
[161] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

to Dull Knife to surrender, and submit himself to the 
Great Father's will. 

After waiting a week without any sign of move- 
ment on the part of the hostiles, Colonel Carlton sent 
out from Fort Robinson, on October 21st, troops 
commanded by Capt. Jack Johnson, and consisting 
of Johnson's Troop B and Lieut. J. C. Thompson's 
Troop D, Third Cavalry, accompanied by twenty- 
two Sioux scouts under Chiefs American Horse (Red 
Cloud's son-in-law and now head chief of the Ogallala 
Sioux) and Rocking Bear. Their orders were to scout 
the sand lulls for the Cheyennes and harry or cap- 
ture them. 

Two days later, when well into the sand hills and 
near the sink of Snake Creek, Johnson located a band 
of sixty hostiles, including the Chiefs Dull Knife, Old 
Crow, and Wild Hog. 

In rags, nearly out of ammunition, famished and 
worn, with scarcely a horse left that could raise a 
trot, no longer able to fight or fly, suffering from 
cold, and disheartened by Red Cloud's refusal to re- 
ceive and shelter them, the splendid old war chief and 
his men were forced to bow to the inevitable and sur- 
render. 

Later in the day Johnson succeeded in rounding up 
the last of Dull Knife's scattered command and head- 
[162] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

ed north for White River with his prisoners, one 
hundred and forty-nine Cheyennes and one hundred 
and thirty-one captured ponies. 

The evening of the 24th Johnson camped at Louis 
Jenks's ranch on Chadron Creek, near the present 
town of* Chadron, Neb. 

A heavy snow-storm had set in early in the after- 
noon, and the night was so bitter and the Indians so 
weakened by their campaign that Johnson felt safe 
to leave them free to take the best shelter they could 
find in the brush along the deep valley of Chadron 
Creek. 

This leniency he was not long in regretting. 

Dull Knife and his band had been feeding liberally 
for two days on troopers' rations, and had so far 
recovered strength of body and heart that when 
morning came on the 25th, the sentries were greeted 
with a feeble volley from rifle-pits in the brush, dug 
by Dull Knife in the frozen ground during the night ! 

And here in these pits indomitable old Dull Knife 
fought stubbornly for two days more — fought and 
held the troops at bay until Lieutenant Chase 
brought up a field-gun from Fort Robinson and 
shelled them to a final surrender ! 

Thus ended the first episode of Dull Knife's mag- 
nificent fight for liberty and fatherland, and yet had 
[163] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

he had food, ammunition, and mounts, the chances 
are a hundred to one that his heroic purpose would 
have been accompHshed, and the entire band that 
left Reno, barring those killed along the trail, would 
have escaped in safety to freedom in the then wilds 
of the Northwest Territory. 

And that, even in this apparently final surrender 
to hopeless odds, Dull Knife was still not without 
hope of further resistance, was proved by the fact 
that when he came out of his trenches only a few 
comparatively old and worthless arms were sur- 
rendered, while it later became known that twenty- 
two good rifles had been taken apart and were swung, 
concealed, beneath the clothing of the squaws ! 

After taking a day's rest, Johnson marched his 
command into Fort Robinson, arriving in the even- 
ing in a heavy snow-storm, where the Cheyennes were 
imprisoned in one of the barracks and their meagre 
equipment dumped in with them, without further 
search for arms or ammunition. Later it was learned 
that that night the Indians quietly loosened some of 
the flooring of the barrack and hid their arms and 
ammunition beneath it, so that when a more careful 
search of their belongings and persons was made two 
days later, they were found to be absolutely without 
weapons of any description. 

[164.] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

THE OUTBREAK AT FORT ROBINSON 

Fort Robinson was a good type of the smaller 
frontier posts of the '70s. It stood on a narrow bench 
to the north of and slightly elevated above the valley 
of Soldier Creek. 

Facing the parade-ground, on the north were 
eight sets of officers' quarters ; on the east, a long 
company barrack; at the southeast angle, another 
barrack ; beyond this, to the west, the guard-house, 
then the adjutant's office, then the quartermaster's 
and the commissary warehouses ; back and to the 
south of these, the company stables and corrals ; on 
the west, the hospital; at the northwest angle. Major 
Paddock's sutler's store. 

A half mile down the valley of White River stood 
the old ruined cantonment of Camp Canby. 

Dull Knife and his people were confined in the log 
barrack at the southeast angle of the parade-ground. 
No doors were locked or windows barred. A small 
guard patrolled the barrack-prison night and day. 

What to do with these indomitable people puzzled 
the Indian Bureau and the army. 

The States of Kansas and Nebraska were clamour- 
ing for their temporary custody for the purpose of 
the identification, prosecution, and punishment of in- 
[165] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

dividual members for killings committed during their 
iiuirch north in October. 

The Sioux, with whom they were closely federated 
and allied, wanted them released and settled in the 
Sioux Reservation ; and Sioux wishes could not be 
idly disregarded, for the best military authorities 
then agreed it would need discreet handling to pre- 
vent the Sioux from taking the war-path again so 
soon as green grass rose in the spring. 

The question of any particular justice in the claim 
of the Cheyennes that the agreements of the Govern- 
ment (made upon their surrender in 1876) had not 
been kept, and that their return to the Indian Ter- 
ritory meant speedy death from fevers, received no 
serious consideration. 

In his reports to the General of the Army for 1878, 
Gen. P. 11. Sheridan made the following noble plea : 

*' There has been an insufficiency of food at the 
agencies, and as the game is gone, hunger has made 
tlie Indians in some cases desperate, and almost any 
race of men will fight rather than starve. . . . The 
question of justice and right to the Indian is past 
and cannot be recalled. We have occupied his coun- 
try, taken away his lordly domain, destroyed his 
herds of game, penned him up on reservations, and 
reduced him to poverty. For humanity's sake let us 

[166] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

give him enough to eat and integrity in the agent 
over him." 



In December a great council was held in the bar- 
rack-prison. The Sioux chiefs, Red Cloud, American 
Horse, Red Dog, and No Flesh, came over from their 
agency to attend it. The Government was represented 
by Captains Wessells and Vroom and their juniors. 
The Cheyennes were gathered in a close circle, the 
officers and visiting chiefs near its centre, the bucks 
back of them, and farther back still the squaws and 
children. 

Red Cloud was the principal Sioux speaker. He 
said in substance : 

" Our hearts are sore for you. 

" Many of our own blood are among your dead. 
This has made our hearts bad. 

" But what can we do ? The Great Father is all- 
powerful. His people fill the whole earth. We must 
do what he says. We have begged him to allow you 
to come to live among us. We hope he may let you 
come. What we have we will share with you. But re- 
member, what he directs, that you must do. 

" We cannot help you. The snows are thick on the 
hills. Our ponies are thin. The game is scarce. You 
cannot resist, nor can we. So listen to your old friend 

[167] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

and do without complaint what the Great Father tells 
you." 

The old Cheyenne war chief, Dull Knife, then 
stepped slowly to the centre of the circle, a grim, 
lean figure. 

Erect, despite his sixty-odd years, with a face of 
a classical Roman profile, with the steady, penetrating 
glance and noble, commanding bearing of a great 
leader of men, Dull Knife stood in his worn canvas 
moccasins and ragged, threadbare blanket, the very 
personification of the greatness of heart and soul 
that cannot be subdued by poverty and defeat. 

Never when riding at the head of hundreds of his 
wild warriors, clad in the purple of his race — leg- 
gings of golden yellow buckskin, heavily beaded, 
blanket of dark blue broadcloth, war bonnet of eagles' 
feathers that trailed behind him on the ground, neck- 
lace of bears' claws, the spoils of many a deadly 
tussle — never in his life did Dull Knife look more a 
chieftain than there in his captivity and rags. 

He first addressed the Sioux: 

" We know you for our friends, whose words we 

may believe. We thank you for asking us to share 

your lands. We hope the Great Father will let us 

come to you. All we ask is to be allowed to live, and 

[168] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

to live in peace. I seek no war with any one. An old 
man, my fighting days are done. We bowed to the 
will of the Great Father and went far into the south 
where he told us to go. There we found a Cheyenne 
cannot live. Sickness came among us that made 
mourning in every lodge. Then the treaty promises 
were broken, and our rations were short. Those not 
worn by disease were wasted by hunger. To stay there 
meant that all of us would die. Our petitions to the 
Great Father were unheeded. We thought it better 
to die fighting to regain our old homes than to perish 
of sickness. Then our march was begun. The rest you 
know." 

Then, turning to Captain Wessells and his officers : 

" Tell the Great Father Dull Knife and his people 
ask only to end their days here in the north where 
they were born. Tell him we want no more war. We 
cannot live in the south ; there is no game. Here, when 
rations are short, we can hunt. Tell him if he lets us 
stay here Dull Knife's people will hurt no one. Tell 
him if he tries to send us back we will butcher each 
other with our own knives. I have spoken." 

Captain Wessells's reply was brief — an assurance 
that Dull Knife's words should go to the Great 
Father. 

The Cheyennes sat silent throughout the council, 
all save one, a powerful young buck named Buffalo 
[169] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Hump — old Dull Knife's son. With the thin strip of 
old canvas that served as his only covering drawn 
tightly about his tall figure, his bronze face aflame 
with sentiments of wrong, of anger, and of hatred, 
Buffalo Hump strode rapidly from one end to the 
other of the long barrack room, casting fierce glances 
at the white men, the very incarnation of savage 
wrath. From beginning to end of the council I mo- 
mentarily expected to see him leap on some member 
of the party, and try to rend him with his hands. 

Of course nothing came of the council. The War 
and Interior Departments agreed that it would be 
imprudent to permit these unsubduablc people to be 
merged into the already restless ranks of the Sioux. 
It was therefore decided to march them back south 
to Fort Reno, whence they had come. 

Fearing disturbance and perhaps outbreak among 
tlie Sioux when this order became known, Capt. P. 
D. Vroom, with four troops of the Third Cavalry, was 
ordered to reinforce the two companies of the gar- 
rison commanded by Captain Wessells. 

Captain Vroom's column reached Robinson early 
in January, 1879, and went into quarters at Camp 
Canby, one mile east of the post, and Vroom reported 
to Wessells, the ranking captain, for orders. 

January opened with very bitter weather. Six or 
[170] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

eight inches of snow covered the ground. The mer- 
cury daily made long excursions below zero. Even 
the troops in cantonment at Canby were suffering 
severely from the cold — some with frozen feet and 
hands. It was all but impossible weather for march- 
ing. 

Nevertheless, on January 5th, Captain Wessells 
received orders from the War Department to imme- 
diately start Dull Knife's band, as quietly and peace- 
ably as possible, and under proper escort, on the 
march to Fort Reno, six hundred miles away in the 
south ! This was the decision of the Indian Bureau, 
and the Secretary of War was requested to have the 
decision immediately enforced. Hence the order which 
reached Captain Wessells. 

Captain Wessells sent a guard to the barrack and 
had Dull Knife, Old Crow, and Wild Hog brought 
into his presence at headquarters. On the arrival of 
the Indians a council was held. Captain Wessells ad- 
vised them of the order of the Department that they 
were to return to the Indian Territory. 

Dull Knife rose to reply. His whole figure trembled 
with rage; his bronze cheeks assumed a deeper red; 
the fires of suppressed passion blazed through his eyes 
until they glittered with the ferocity of an enraged 
beast at bay. Nevertheless, he spoke slowly and almost 
[171] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

calmly. He did not have much to say. He made no 
threats or gestures. 

He said he had listened to what the Great Father 
had ordered. It was the dearest wish of him and his 
people to try to do what the Great Father desired, 
for they knew they were helpless in his hands. But 
now the Great Father was telling them to do what 
they could not do — to try to march to the Indian 
Territory in such weather. Many would be sure to 
perish on the way, and those who reached the res- 
ervation would soon fall victims to the fevers that 
had already brought mourning into nearly all their 
lodges. If, then, the Great Father wished them to die 
— very well, only they would die where they then 
were, if necessary by their own hands. They would 
not return to the south, and they would not leave 
their barrack-prison. 

Captain Wcssclls knew that Dull Knife's complaint 
was well founded. Still, bound by the rigid rules of 
the service, he had absolutely no latitude whatever. 
He therefore directed the interpreter to explain to 
Dull Knife that the orders were imperative and must 
be obeyed, and to assure him that the cavalry escort 
would do all in their power to save the Indians from 
any unnecessary hardship on the journey. 

Dull Knife, however, remained firm, and his com- 
[ 172] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

panions, when appealed to, only growled a brief as- 
sent to Dull Knife's views. 

" Then, Interpreter," said Wessells, " tell them 
their food and fuel will be stopped entirely until they 
conclude to come peaceably out of their barrack, 
ready to march south as ordered." 

The three chiefs silently heard their sentence, and 
were then quickly marched back to their barrack- 
prison by a file of soldiers. 

All this occurred shortly after " guard mount " 
in the morning. 

Apart from its inhumanity, Wessells's order was 
bad policy. Hunger drives the most cowardly to vio- 
lence. Then, to add to the wretched plight of the In- 
dians, they were all but naked. No clothing had been 
issued to them since their capture, and they were clad 
only in tattered blankets and fragments of tent cloth. 
Requisitions for clothing had been sent to the Indian 
Bureau, but none had come. 

Thus, half naked, without food or fires, these mis- 
erable people starved and shivered for five days and 
nights, but with no thought of surrender ! 

Captain Wessells sent the interpreter to pro- 
pose that the children be removed and fed, but 
this they refused ; they said they preferred to die 
together. 

[173] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

For five days and nights the barrack rang with 
shrill, terrible death chants. It was clear that they 
had resolved to die, and weakening fast indeed they 
were under the rigours of cold and hunger, weakening 
in all but spirit. 

The morning of the 9th of January, the fifth day 
of their compulsory fast. Captain Wessells again 
summoned Dull Knife, Old Crow, and Wild Hog to a 
council. 

Only the two latter came. 

Suspecting violence, the Indians refused to let their 
old chief leave the barrack. 

Asked if they were ready to surrender. Wild Hog 
replied that they would die first. 

The two chiefs were then ordered seized and ironed. 
In the struggle Wild Hog succeeded in seriously 
stabbing Private Ferguson of Troop A, and sounded 
his war-cry as an alarm to his people. 

Instantly pandemonium broke loose in the Indian 
barrack. 

They realised the end was at hand. 

The war songs of the warriors rang loudly above 
the shrill death chants of the squaws. 

Windows and doors were quickly barricaded. 

The floor of the barrack was torn up and rifle-pits 
were dug beneath it. 

[174] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

Stoves and flooring were broken into convenient 
shapes for use as war clubs. 

The twenty-odd rifles and pistols which had been 
smuggled into the barrack, by slinging them about 
the waists of the squaws beneath their blankets, at 
the time of the capture, were soon brought from 
their hiding place and loaded. 

They expected an immediate attack, but none came. 

And all day long the garrison was kept under arms, 
ready for any sortie by the Indians. 

Night at last came, and, notwithstanding the ter- 
rible warnings of the day, no extraordinary precau- 
tions were taken. A guard of only seventeen men were 
under arms, and of these only a few were on post 
about this barrack full of maddened savages. 

All but Captain Wessells were so certain of a des- 
perate outbreak that night that Lieutenant Baxter 
and several other officers sat fully dressed and armed 
in their quarters, awaiting the first alarm. 

" Taps " sounded at nine o'clock, the barracks 
were soon darkened, and the troopers retired. 

Only a few lights burned in the officers' quarters 
and at the trader's store. 

The night was still and fearfully cold, the earth 
hid by the snow. 

Ten o'clock came, and just as the " all's well " was 
[175] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

passing from one sentry to another, a buck fired 
through a window and killed a sentr}'^, jumped 
through the window and got the sentry's carbine and 
belt, and sprang back into the barrack. Then two or 
three bucks ran out of the west door, where they 
quickly shot down Corporal Pulver and Private 
Hulz, both of Troop A, and Private Tommeny, of 
Troop E. 

At doors and windows the barrack now emptied its 
horde of desperate captives, maddened by injustice 
and wild from hunger. Nevertheless, they acted with 
method and generalship, and with a heroism worthy 
of the noblest men of any race. 

The bucks armed with firearms were the first to 
leave the barrack. These formed in line in front of 
the barrack and opened fire on the guard-house and 
upon the troopers as they came pouring out of neigh- 
bouring barracks. Thus they held the garrison in 
check until the women and children and the old and 
infirm were in full flight. 

Taken completely by surprise, the troops, never- 
theless, did fearfully effective work. Captain Wessells 
soon had them out, and not a few entered into the 
fight and pursuit clad in nothing but their under- 
clothing, hatless and shoeless. 

The fugitives took the road to the saw-mill cross- 
[176] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

ing of White River, only a few hundred yards distant 
from their barrack, crossed the White River, and 
started southwest toward my ranch, where they evi- 
dently expected to mount themselves out of my herd 
of cow ponies, for they carried with them all their 
lariats, saddles, and bridles to this point. Here, 
pressed hopelessly close by the troops, their gallant 
rear-guard of bucks melting fast before the volleys 
of the pursuers, the Indians dropped their horse 
equipments, turned, and recrossed White River, and 
headed for the high, precipitous divide between Sol- 
dier Creek and White River, two miles nearer their 
then position than the cliffs about my ranch. They 
knew their only chance lay in quickly reaching hills 
inaccessible to cavalry. 

All history affords no record of a more heroic, 
forlorn hope than this Cheyenne sortie. 

Had the bucks gone alone, many would surely have 
escaped, but they resolved to die together and to pro- 
tect their women and children to the last. 

Thus more than half their fighting men fell in the 
first half mile of this flying fight. And as the warriors 
fell, their arms were seized by squaws and boys, who 
wielded them as best they could ! 

In the gloom of night the soldiers could not dis- 
tinguish a squaw from a buck. Lieutenant Cummings 
[ 177 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

fell into a washout near the saw-mill nearly atop of 
two Indians. They attacked him with knives, but he 
succeeded in killing both with his pistol — only to find 
that they were squaws ! 

The struggle was o/ten hand-to-hand, and many 
of the dead were powder-burned. For a long distance 
the trail was strewn thick with bodies. 

A sergeant and several men were pursuing two 
isolated fugitives, who proved to be a buck and squaw. 
Suddenly the two fugitives turned and charged their 
pursuers, the buck armed with a pistol, the squaw 
with a piece of an iron stove ! They were shot down. 

This running fight afoot continued for nearly a 
mile, when the troops, many of them already badly 
frozen, were hurried back to the garrison to get 
needed clothing and their mounts. 

SOLDIER CREEK AMBUSCADES 

That night at ten o'clock I sat in my room at the 
Deadman Ranch, five miles south of Fort Robinson, 
writing a letter descriptive of the day's incidents, and 
of the peril threatening us, to my then partner, Clar- 
ence King. 

I had ridden into the garrison that morning for 
my mail, and was passing the headquarters building 
at the very moment the fight occurred, in which Dull 
[ 1T8] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

Knife and Old Crow were seized and bound — in fact, 
dismounted and got into the building in time to see 
the finish of the fight. 

I had remained in the garrison until mid-afternoon, 
a witness of the desperate temper of the captives. 

Indeed, I do not think there was an officer in the 
garrison, outside of the commanding officer, who did 
not feel perfectly certain in his mind that the Chey- 
ennes would in a few hours at the most make a finish 
fight for liberty, for from the hour of the seizing of 
the two chiefs, all day long death-chants and war- 
songs were ringing in the barracks. 

In the event of such an outbreak, our position at 
the ranch was serious, for mine was the only large 
band of horses then in the immediate neighbourhood, 
and any who might succeed in cutting their way 
through the troops and temporarily eluding pursuit 
were certain to seek mounts from my cavallada. I, 
therefore, returned to the ranch in time to have the 
horses rounded up and thrown in stockade, about 
which a guard was set at dark. 

At precisely 10 p.m. one of my cowboy guards 
sprang into my room and cried : 

" Th' ball's opened down thar at th' Fort, 'n' she's 
a h 1 of a big one ! " 

Hurrying outside into the clear, still, bitterly 
[ 179] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

cold night, I could plainly hear heavy rifle fire at the 
post that proved a desperate engagement was on. 

The north end room of the ranch house itself was 
a stable, in which on emergency nights like this each 
of us had his best horse ready saddled. 

Leaving eight men to guard the ranch and corrals, 
I immediately mounted and took with me a boy named 
Matthews, on a run for the fort, with the purpose 
to learn if there was any likelihood of any of the 
Cheycnnes escaping in our direction. 

A brilliantly clear night, and with nearly a full 
moon, we could see a considerable distance ahead of 
us over the snow, so that there was comparatively 
small risk of running into the hostilcs unawares. 

Half-way into the garrison we could hear heavy 
firing on our left, which told us the chase led west up 
the White River Valley. 

Then suddenly all firing ceased. 

Spurring rapidly ahead at full speed, we soon 
reached a high, conical hill about two hundred yards 
south of the saw-mill, a hill which commanded a full 
view of the garrison, and we rode to its summit. 

There beneath us, across the valley, lay Fort Rob- 
inson in the moonlight, calm and still. 

In the entire garrison only one lamp was alight, 
and that at Alajor Paddock's trader's store. 
[180] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

No one could fancy that Death had been at work 
there in one of his most terrible forms. 

" 01' Man," said Matt, " I reckon we better pull 
our freight for the ranch. From all that shootin', 
'pears to me like there caint be many left alive, and 

that d d still valley don't look to me no good 

country to go into." 

However, I decided to ride on into the garrison, 
and we descended the hill toward the river. 

Presently, nearing the narrow fringe of timber 
that lined the stream, we could see ahead of us a 
broad, dark line dividing the snow : it was the trail of 
pursued and pursuers — the line of flight. Come to it, 
we halted. 

There at our feet, grim and stark and terrible in 
the moonlight, lay the dead and wounded, so thick 
for a long way that one could leap from one body to 
another ; there they lay grim and stark, soldiers and 
Indians, the latter lean and gaunt as wolves from 
starvation, awful with their wounds, infinitely pa- 
thetic on this bitter night in their ragged, half- 
clothed nakedness. 

We started to ride across the trail, when in a fallen 
buck I happened to notice I recognised Buffalo 
Hump, Dull Knife's son. 

He lay on his back, with arms extended and face 

[ 181 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

upturned. In his right hand he held a small knife, 
a knife worn by years and years of use from the use- 
ful proportions of a butcher knife until the blade was 
no more than one quarter of an inch wide at the hilt, 
a knife descended to domestic use by the squaws as an 
awl in sewing moccasins, and yet the only weapon 
this magnificent warrior could command in this his 
last fight for freedom! 

As I sat on my horse looking down at Buffalo 
Hump, believing him dead, the picture rose in my 
mind of the council in which he had stalked from end 
to end of the barrack, burning with an anger and 
hatred which threatened even then and there to break 
out into violence, when suddenly he rose to a sitting 
position and aimed a fierce blow at my leg with his 
knife. Instinctively, as he rose, I spurred my horse 
out of his reach and jerked my pistol, but before I 
could use it he fell back and lay still — dead. 

So died Buffalo Hump, a warrior capable, with 
half a chance, of making martial history worthy even 
of his doughty old father. 

I dismounted, took the little knife from his hand, 
cut its tiny leather sheath from his belt, and had just 
remounted, when we got the sharp challenge, " Who 
goes there? " from the dense plum thicket to the west 
of the trail, to which we were not slow in answering, 
[ 182] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

" Friends " when out of the brush marched Lieut. 
George Baxter at the head of his half-dressed, dis- 
mounted troopers, hastening back to the garrison 
for their horses. 

" Where are your Indians, George? " I called. 

" Every mother's son gone but those laid out along 
the trail, old man," he answered. 

Then Matt and I rode on into the post, meeting 
Lieut. Jim Simpson and Dr. Pettys, out with a 
waggon and detail of men, gathering up the dead and 
wounded. 

Immediately on hearing the fire, Vroom, at Camp 
Canby, had thrown two troops in skirmish order 
across the valley to prevent escape to the east, and 
hurried into Robinson himself at the head of a third 
troop. 

Already mounted, Vroom was the first to overtake 
and re-engage the flying Cheyennes, whose knowledge 
of the geography of the country proved remarkable. 
They had selected a high bluff two miles west of the 
post as their means of escape, its summit inaccessible 
to horsemen for more than six miles from the point 
of their ascent. 

Almost daily for months had I ridden beneath this 
bluff, and would readily have sworn not even a moun- 
tain goat could ascend to its summit ; but, hidden 
[183] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

away in an angle of the cliff lay a slope accessible 
to footmen, and this the Indians knew and sought. 

Just below this slope Vroom brought the rear 
guard to bay, and a brief, desperate engagement was 
fought. The Indians succeeded in holding the troops 
in check until all but those fallen under the fire of 
Vroom's command were able to reach the summit. 

Here on this slope, fighting in the front ranks of 
the rear guard, the " Princess," Dull Knife's young- 
est daughter, was killed! 

Further pursuit until daylight being impossible, 
the troopers were marched back into the garrison. 

By daylight the hospital was filled with wounded 
Indians, and thirty-odd dead — bucks, squaws, and 
children — lay in a row by the roadside near the saw- 
mill, and there later they were buried in a common 
trench. 

At dawn of the 10th, Captain Wessells led out four 
troops of cavalry, and, after a couple of hours' scout- 
ing, found that the Indians had followed for ten miles 
the summit of the high divide between White River 
and Soldier Creek, travelling straiorht away westward, 
and then had descended to the narrow valley of Sol- 
dier Creek, up which the trail lay, plain to follow 
through the snow as a beaten road. 

Along this trail Captain Vroom led the column 
[184] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

at the head of his troop. Next behind him rode 
Lieut. George A. Dodd, then a youngster not long 
out of West Point, and later for many years rec- 
ognised as the crack cavalry captain of the army. 
Next behind Dodd I rode. 

Ahead of the column a hundred yards rode Wom- 
an's Dress, a Sioux scout. 

For seventeen miles from the post the trail showed 
that the fugitives had made no halt ! A marvellous 
march on such a bitter night for a lot of men, women, 
and children, many of them wounded, all half clad and 
practically starved for five days i 

Presently the trail wound round the foot of a high, 
steep hill, the crest of which was covered with fallen 
timber, a hill so steep the column was broken into 
single file to pass it. Here the trail could be seen 
winding on through the snow over another hill a half 
mile ahead. 

Thus an ambush was the last thing expected, 
but, after passing the crest of the second hill, the 
Indians had made a wide detour to the north, gained 
the fallen timber on the crest of this first hill, and had 
there intrenched themselves. 

So it happened that at the moment the head of 
Vroom's column came immediately beneath their in- 
trenchment, the Cheyennes opened fire at short range, 
[185] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

emptied two or three saddles, and naturally and 
rightly enough stampeded the leading troop into 
the brush ahead of and back of the hill, for it was no 
place to stand and make a fight. 

And here a funny thing happened. Dodd was a 
youngster then, fuller of fight than experience, and 
at the first fire, realising the hopelessness of work in 
the saddle on such ground, he sprang off his horse, 
and had no more than hit the ground before his 
horse jerked loose from him, and, looking about, he 
found himself alone on the hillside, the only target, 
and a conspicuous one, for the Cheyennes' fire. 

Nothing remained but to make a run for the brush, 
and a good run he made of it, but, encumbered with a 
buffalo overcoat and labouring through the heavy 
snow, he soon got winded and dropped a moment for 
rest behind the futile shelter of a sage bush. 

Meantime, the troopers had reached the timber, 
dismounted, taken positions behind trees, and were 
pouring into the Indian stronghold a fire so heavy 
that Dodd was soon able to make another run and 
escape to the timber unscathed. 

Arrived there, Vroom noticed Dodd rubbing the 
back of his neck and asked him what was the matter, 
when Dodd answered : 

" Mighty heavy timber I was lying under out there, 
[186] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

wasn't it? You know, the limbs cut off by the Indians' 
fire and falling on the back of my neck felt like strokes 
from a baseball bat ! " 

A humorous sarcasm on the scanty shelter of a 
sage bush and the slender sage twigs Tommy was 
picking out of the back of his collar ! 

The Indian stronghold on the hilltop was soon 
surrounded and held under a desultory long-range 
fire all day, as the position was one impregnable to a 
charge. 

No packs or rations having been brought, at night- 
fall Captain Wessells built decoy camp fires about the 
Indians' position and marched the command back 
into the garrison. 

THE BATTLE ON WAR BONNET BLUFFS 

Early in the afternoon of the 10th, shortly after 
the troops had surrounded the hill held by the hos- 
tiles, I rode alone back into the garrison and started 
for my Deadman Ranch. 

About a mile south of the saw-mill I met a trooper 
riding at high speed for the garrison, and turned and 
rode with him. 

He told me Lieutenant Baxter, with a detachment 
of ten men, had located, on the slope of a bluff a mile 
east of the Deadman Ranch, a camp of Indians which 
[187] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

he believed represented a large band of the hostiles 
still loose. 

Pointing to a spur of the bluffs three or four hun- 
dred feet high standing well out into the valley a 
scant mile east of my ranch, the trooper hurried on 
into the garrison for reinforcements, and I spurred 
away for the bluff, and soon could see a line of 
dismounted troopers strung along the crest of the 
ridge. 

As I rode up to the foot of the bluff, skirmish firing 
began on top of the ridge. 

After running my horse as far up the hill as its 
precipitous nature would permit, I started afoot 
climbing for the crest, but, finding it inaccessible at 
that point, started around the face of the bluff to 
the east to find a practicable line of ascent, when sud- 
denly I was startled to hear the ominous, shrill buzz 
of rifle balls just above my head, from the skirmish 
line on the crest of the ridge — startled, indeed, for I 
had supposed the Indians to be on the crest of the 
bluff, farther to the south. 

Dropping behind a tree and looking down-hill, I 
saw a faint curl of smoke rising from a little wash- 
out one hundred yards below me, and, crouched 
beside the smouldering fire in the washout, a lone 
Indian. 

[188] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

This warrior's fight and death was characteristic 
of the magnificent spirit which had inspired the band, 
from the beginning of the campaign at Fort Reno. 

In mid-afternoon, scouting to the south of the gar- 
rison for trails, Lieutenant Baxter had discovered 
this camp fire, and, quite naturally assuming that 
none but a considerable band of the Indians would 
venture upon building a camp fire so near to the gar- 
rison, had immediately sent a trooper courier into the 
garrison with advice of his discovery. 

Then he dismounted his command and approached 
the camp fire in open skirmish order, until it was 
plain to be seen that the fire was deserted. The trail 
of a single Indian led into the washout, and imprints 
in the snow showed where he had sat, evidently for 
some hours, beside the fire. But of the washout's 
fugitive tenant no trace could be found, no trail 
showing his route of departure. In one direction, 
along a sharp ridge leading toward the hogback's 
crest, the snow was blown away, the ground bare, and 
this seemed to be his natural line of flight from Bax- 
ter's detachment. 

After what all believed a thorough search of the 

vicinity of the fire, Lieutenant Baxter left Corporal 

Everett and a trooper near the fire, and, remounting, 

led the balance of his men up the slope with the view 

[189] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

to cut the Cheyenne's trail wheresoever it might 
again enter the snow. 

Baxter was gone barely ten minutes when he was 
startled by two rifle-shots in his rear, from the vicin- 
ity of the fire ! Looking back, he saw his two troopers 
prostrate in the snow, and later learned that Everett 
and his mate, while stamping about to keep warm, 
had approached a little shallow washout within thirty 
yards of the fire that all vowed they had looked into, 
and suddenly had discovered the Indian lying at its 
bottom, wrapped in a length of dirty old canvas the 
precise colour of the gray clay soil — wliich doubtless 
had served to conceal him through the earlier search. 
The moment the Indian made sure he was discovered, 
he cast open his canvas wrap and fired twice with a 
carbine, shooting Corporal Everett through the 
stomach and killing him almost instantly, and seri- 
ously wounding his mate. 

Thus rudely taught that humanity was useless, and 
that it must be a fight to the death, observing 
" Papa " Lawson approaching from the fort at the 
head of his troop, Baxter swung his own men up and 
along the top of the ridge, where they could better 
command the old Cheyenne's position, and opened on 
him a heavy fire — and it was just at this juncture I 
arrived. 

[190] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

Immediately after I first sighted the Indian, 
" Papa " Lawson swung around the foot of the 
hill with his troop, dismounted, and charged up 
on foot — thus making sixty men concentrated upon 



one 



The old Cheyenne kept up his rapid fire as long as 
he could. Toward the last I plainly saw him fire his 
carbine three times with his left hand, resting the 
barrel along the edge of the washout, while his right 
hand hung helpless beside him. 

Suddenly I saw him drop down in the bottom of 
the washout, limp as an empty sack. 

When we came up to him it appeared that while 
the shot that killed him had entered the top of his 
head, he nevertheless earlier in the engagement had 
been hit four times — once through the right shoulder, 
once through the left cheek, once in the right side, 
and a fourth ball toward the last had completely shat- 
tered his right wrist. 

It was apparent that he had been making a des- 
perate break to reach my horses, which usually ran in 
the very next canon to the west, for he still carried 
with him a lariat and bridle ; but his unprotected feet 
had been so badly frozen during the night that he had 
become entirely unable to travel farther, and, reahs- 
ing himself to be utterly helpless, in sheer desperation 
[191] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

had built a fire to get what poor, miserable comfort 
he could for the few minutes or hours remaining to 
him! 

A curious incident here followed. 

An ambulance had come with Lawson's troop to 
the field, in which the body of Everett and his wound- 
ed mate were placed, while the body of the dead Chey- 
enne was thrown into the boot at the back of the 
conveyance. Upon arrival in the garrison, Lieutenant 
Baxter discovered that the body of the Indian had 
been lost out of the boot on the short four-mile 
journey into Robinson, and sent back a sergeant and 
detail of men to recover it. But the most careful 
search along the trail failed to reveal any trace of 
the body, and whatever became of it to this day re- 
mains a mystery. 

On the night of the 10th fifty-two Indians had 
been recaptured, approximately half of them more or 
less badly wounded, and thirty-seven were known to 
have been killed, leaving a total of sixty unaccounted 
for. 

Still without food, on the morning of the 11th, 
the seventh day of their fast, and unable to march 
farther. Captain Wessclls's column found the fugi- 
tives occupying a strong position in the thick timber 
along Soldier Creek at the foot of the liill upon which 
[192] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

they had been intrenched the day before, better shel- 
tered from the severity of the weather. 

Again long-range firing was the order of the 
day, for a charge would have incurred needless 
hazard. 

During this day the Indians succeeded in killing a 
troop horse on an exposed hillside within three or 
four hundred yards of their position. The rider nar- 
rowly escaped with his life. 

The ground where the horse fell was so openly 
exposed the carcass had to be left where it had fallen, 
and that night, after Captain Wessells had again 
marched his command back into the garrison, the car- 
cass furnished the first food these poor wretches had 
eaten for seven days ! 

That their hearts were firm as ever and that all 
they needed was a little physical strength the next 
few days effectually proved. 

The 12th they lay eating and resting, and when on 
the 13th Wessells's column returned to the attack, 
the Indians were found six miles farther to the west, 
well intrenched on the Hat Creek Bluffs, and there 
again an ambush was encountered in which two troop- 
ers were wounded. 

On this day a twelve-pound Napoleon gun was 
brought into action, and forty rounds of shell were 
[193] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

thrown into the Indians' position, without dislodg- 
ing them. 

This same day Captain Wessells and Lieutenants 
Crawford and Hardie crept near the rifle-pits with 
an interpreter and called to the Cheyennes to bring 
out their women and children, promising them shelter 
and protection. A feeble volley was the only reply ! 

Realising the Indians had now reached a cattle 
country, in which they could kill meat and subsist 
themselves. Captain Wessells had brought out a pack- 
train, with blankets and rations, to enable him to sur- 
round the Indians' position at night, and, should 
they slip away, to camp on their trail. 

This night they were surrounded, but at dawn of 
the 14th Lieutenant Crawford discovered the wily 
enemy had again slipped through the picket lines, 
headed southwestward along the high bluffs which 
lined the southern edge of Hat Creek Basin. 

For six days more the same tactics on both sides 
prevailed ; the Indians were daily followed in running 
fight, or brought to bay in strong positions prac- 
tically impregnable of direct attack, surrounded at 
nightfall, only to glide away like veritable shadows 
during the night, and of course more or less were 
killed in these daily engagements. 

On the 20th Captain Wessells's command was 
[194] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

joined by Lieutenant Dodd and a large band of Sioux 
scouts. 

Tuesday, the 21st, saw the finish. 

At a point on the Hat Creek Bluffs, near the head 
of War Bonnet Creek, forty-four miles a little to 
the south of west of Fort Robinson, the Cheyennes 
lay at bay in their last intrenchment, worn out with 
travel and fighting, and with scarcely any ammuni- 
tion left. 

They were in a washout about fifty feet long, 
twelve feet wide, and five feet deep, near the edge of 
the bluffs. 

Skirmishers were thrown out beneath them on the 
slope of the bluff to prevent their escape in that di- 
rection, and then Captain Wessells advanced on the 
washout, with his men formed in open skirmish order. 

A summons through the interpreter to surrender 
was answered by a few scattering shots from the 
washout. 

Converging on the washout in this charge, the 
troopers soon were advancing in such a dense body 
that nothing saved them from terrible slaughter but 
the exhaustion of the Cheyennes' ammunition. 

Charging to the edge of the pit, the troopers emp- 
tied their carbines into it, sprang back to reload, 
and then came on again, while above the crash of the 
[ 195 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

rifles rose the hoarse death chants of the expiring 
band. 

The last three warriors alive — and God knows they 
deserve the name of warriors if ever men deserved it — 
sprang out of their defences, one armed with an 
empty pistol and two with knives, and madly charged 
the troops ! 

Three men charged three hundred ! 

They fell, shot to pieces like men fallen under 
platoon fire. 

And then the fight was over. 

The little washout was a shambles, whence the 
troops removed twenty-two dead and nine living, 
and of the living all but two (women) were badly 
wounded ! 

These were all that remained out of the sixty un- 
accounted for after the fighting near Fort Robinson, 
excepting five or six bucks, among them Chief Dull 
Knife, who had been cut off from the main band in 
the first night's fight and had escaped to the Sioux. 

And among the Ogallala Sioux thereafter, till he 
died, dwelt Dull Knife, grim and silent as Sphinx or 
dumb man ; brooding his wrongs ; cursing the fate 
that had denied him the privilege to die fighting with 
his people ; sitting alone daily for hours on the crest 
of a Wounded Knee bluff rising near his tepee, and 
[196] 



A FINISH FIGHT FOR A BIRTHRIGHT 

gazing longingly across the wide reaches of the Bad 
Lands to a faint blue line, on the northwestern hori- 
zon, that marked his old highland home in the Black 
Hills ; mentally fighting over again and yet again 
the tussles of his youth and the battles of his prime, 
until, to his excited vision, the valley beneath him was 
again filled with charging war parties — grimly paint- 
ed men naked to their moccasins and breech-cloths 
on ponies naked to their bridles — chanting their war 
songs, the eagle feathers of dearly won war bonnets 
flying behind them, bow strings twanging, lance 
clashing on bull-hide shield; and then, with quivers 
empty and lances broken, the last deadly tussle hand- 
to-hand, with its silent knife thrusts, the dull thud of 
the deadly, flexible-handled, stone-headed war club, 
the clutch of eager fingers on scalp locks, and the 
tearing of these terrible trophies of victory from still 
throbbing heads ! 



[197] 



CHAPTER EIGHT 
McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

ODDS against your effective fighting force 
of fourteen hundred to one are, to say the 
least, impressive. To be sure we had one 
hundred alHes, but at the outset they were naturally 
— as will appear later — an unknown quantity. 

That I was present at Red Cloud's White Clay 
Agency at such a time was not because I was hunting 
trouble, but was simply due to the fact that trouble 
seemed to take a lot of pleasure in hunting the few 
plains dwellers of that day in that region — it just 
came to all of us, in one form or another, in the course 
of the day's work in the late '70s and early '80s. 

And it came naturally and rightly enough. We 
were trespassers, the first trespassers, upon the best- 
beloved camping and hunting grounds of the Sioux. 
To be sure that region had been " ceded " to the Gov- 
ernment. But the " cession " had been negotiated 
virtually by force of arms, and the Sioux resented it, 
resented it the more for that, of the lands left to them 
[ 198 ] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

as their reservation in perpetuity, at least eighty per 
cent are in the Dakota Bad Lands, whose expressive 
name ill conveys their inability to support anything 
more nearly animate than the rich store of fossils of 
prehistoric life that must forever remain the only ten- 
ants of their bald buttes and naked swales. 

There were only a few of us then to the north of 
the North Platte River, all cattle ranchmen, and no 
nearer settlement than Cheyenne, our supply town, 
two hundred miles to the southwest. 

For three years we had no county organisation. 
Every man was a law unto himself. In the extreme 
northwest corner of Nebraska we were nominally 
attached for all legal and taxable purposes to the 
next organised county on the east, Holt, whose coun- 
ty seat, O'Neil, lay nearly three hundred miles away. 
But, in merry frontier practice, Indians and road 
agents were so industrious that for the first three 
years of our occupation no tax assessor or other 
county or state official ever appeared as a reminder 
that, technically, we dwelt within the pale of the law. 

Such a state of society naturally appealed to and 
attracted predatory reds and whites. 

Thus the one thing perhaps a trifle more insecure 
than human life was property. 

Dune. Blackburn, Jack Wadkins, Lame Johnny, 
[199] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

and like knights of the highway lurked along the 
stage roads, preyed upon stage-coaches and tender- 
foot travellers to and from the Black Hills, but never 
monkeyed with bull whackers or ranchmen; outlaw 
cowboys like Jack Handly, Jack Stroud, and Tom 
K^'le stole cattle and drove them to the mining camps 
or lifted horses and ran them into the southeastern 
settlements ; Indians — well, whenever times were oth- 
erwise dull we could always depend upon the Indians 
for an ambush of our range riders or a raid upon our 
horse herds. 

Thus there was always enough doing to keep 
one's gun from getting rusty or himself from over- 
sleeping. 

And the difficulties in dealing with such condi- 
tions will be better appreciated when it is explained 
that the average ranch outfit seldom numbered more 
than eight to twelve men, and the reader is re- 
minded that ranches were rarely nearer, one to an- 
other, than twenty miles ! 

The remoteness of courts and the lack of regu- 
larly constituted sheriffs or other peace officers in 
Northern Wyoming, Dakota, and Northwest Ne- 
braska forced the ranchmen to organise, for mutual 
protection, the Wyoming Stock Growers' Associa- 
tion, and before it ceased work the Association did 
[200] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

much toward pacifying the country ; indeed, in so 
far as outlaw cowboy rustlers was concerned, the 
country was made quiet and peaceful as a New Eng- 
land village graveyard. 

The methods of the Association were simple but 
direct. A small but very select corps of highly ex- 
pert man hunters was employed, and a member of 
the Executive Committee was assigned the charge 
and command of such of the corps as were assigned 
to him by the Committee. 

To the average outlaw of the day it was such a 
matter of professional pride to " die with his boots 
on " rather than be made captive, that encounters 
of hunters and hunted nearly always meant a finish 
fight. 

At the time I was the member of the Executive 
Committee of the Association in charge of the " in- 
spectors " assigned to my district. 

Quite the most serious condition in our district 
needing attention was the raiding of our horse herds 
by the Sioux. Nominally the Sioux and the whites 
had been at peace since the battle of the Little Big 
Horn ; but the young bucks were hard to control, 
and every full of the moon plunder-bent bands of 
these youngsters slipped quietly away from the 
Agency at night in quest of the wealth most highly 
[201] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

prized by Sioux warriors — horseflesh — the wealth 
with which brides were bought and battles fought 
and won. For girls sought in marriage were valued 
in terms of horses — the greater their attractions the 
more horses demanded — and it was the frequent 
fresh remounts from their abundant horse herds that 
made it next to impossible for cavalry (limited to 
a single mount per man) to bring hostile Indians 
to bay, except in such positions and circumstances 
of advantage as the hostiles themselves chose. 

The troops in the country were willing enough, 
but powerless to help us. The identity of the ma- 
rauders was as hopelessly lost in the mass of the 
tribe as that of the horses in the mass of the Sioux 
herds. 

So early that spring I went to the White Clay 
Agency and had a conference with Dr. McGillicuddy, 
the United States Government agent for Red Cloud's 
Lakotah (Ogallala) Sioux. 

Dr. McGillicuddy was a man in a million for his 
post. And yet he only did his duty, plain and sim- 
ple; saw that his Indians got the last pound of 
provisions and supplies and the last yard of goods 
tlie Indian Bureau allowed and sent them ; dealt with 
them for the grown-up children they in many ways 
were ; humoured their whims, but boldly opposed and 
[202] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

checked their excesses ; strove his best to see that 
they had justice; sought to cut their war trails 
into short paths of productive peace beginning and 
ending in tilled fields. 

Could the Indian Bureau have commanded the ser- 
vices of a few score such agents through the last 
half of the last century, half our Indian wars had 
never happened, for at least that percentage had 
their direct cause in the want and hunger bred of 
incapable or corrupt handling of Indian supplies. 

Before becoming agent, McGillicuddy had been an 
army surgeon. He was then in his prime, in the early 
thirties, broad of shoulder, lean of flank and jaw, 
with a steady-gazing, searching eye of the sort an 
enemy finds no cheer in. And, happily alike for him 
and his charges, he owned a wife, present with him 
at his post, as big of body, stout of courage, honest 
of purpose, and kind of heart as was he himself — 
ideal mates they were for their task. 

Naturally, the more McGillicuddy could check the 
Sioux warlike practices, the easier his task became. 
Indeed, I found him as keen to assist in stopping 
their predatory raids on ranch horse herds as were 
we of the Association. He told me he had already 
planned the organisation of a small band of Indian 
poHce, which shortly he intended to effect, notwith- 
[203] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

standing the proposal had been met by bitter oppo- 
sition from all the active leaders of the tribe, and 
with this force to patrol the reservation for return- 
ing bands of horse stealers. Thus he hoped to come 
upon them before they had time to burn out brands 
and otherwise disfigure and disguise the stolen horses 
past identification. 

This plan was a long step to the good; and when 
I suggested placing permanently at the Agency one 
of our inspectors expert in brand reading and he 
promptly assented, all that we could hope or expect 
of the agent was accomplished. 

A few days later one of my best men, Charlie 
Conley, took station at the Agency, but it was sev- 
eral weeks before the agent succeeded in organising 
his police force. 

Ultimately, McGillicuddy chose a young warrior, 
named Sword, and told him if he would organise a 
band of one hundred youngsters no more than twen- 
ty years old to serve as police, he would uniform, 
arm, and equip them, and would make Sword chief 
of the band. " But mind," explained the agent to 
Sword, " if any of your own nearest relations do 
wrong, and I send you out to arrest them, in you 
must bring them, dead or alive ! " All this was nuts 
for Sword, for it not only gave an important com- 
[204] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

mand to a man then only a warrior, but also gave 
him, as executor of the agent's orders, general au- 
thority over even the elders and chiefs of the tribe. 

And little did the tribe like it, old or young, for 
it was not long until the police, aided materially 
by Inspector Conley, made important recoveries of 
stolen stock, and interfered seriously with their pred- 
atory pleasures and profits. 

But just as I began to feel that I could see a 
safe solution of the Indian end of our problem, trou- 
ble loomed up from an unexpected quarter. 

Both Dr. McGillicuddy and Inspector Conley 
were men of a hair-trigger temper, the former 
wedded to and the latter divorced from everything 
that stood for punctilious formalities. So it was not 
long until they fell foul of each other. 

Presently, one day early in June, the same mail 
brought me two brief letters — one from the doctor 
stating that if I did not recall my inspector im- 
mediately, he would have him run off the reservation 
by the Indian police ; the other from Conley saying 
that unless I gave him authority to leave the Agency 
pretty quick, he reckoned he'd have to kill the agent. 

Neither gave any explanation — from which I in- 
ferred the difficulty was purely personal and tem- 
peramental, of a sort possible of patching. 
[205] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

So that evening I forked a bronco and hit the 
trail for the Agency, sixty miles away, where I 
arrived early the next morning. 

And I found myself come none too soon ; the agent 
was about ready to order the inspector's expulsion 
by the police, and the inspector was quite ready to 
kill the agent if he attempted anything of the sort, 
and then take his chances of shooting his way 
through the police to escape — in the carrying out 
of which uncomplicated strategy the odds would 
have been ten thousand to one against Conley, for 
the entire tribe would have welcomed a chance to 
pot him. However, about a little matter of odds 
men of Conley's breed never worried, where the 
stakes were no more than one's own life. 

And this highly tense, really deadly, situation 
had its origin in what.'' 

In the fact that Conley had developed the friendly 
habit of coming unbidden to the doctor's office, roll- 
ing and smoking cigarettes unasked, and roosting 
his feet comfortably on the doctor's desk, prefera- 
bly on a corner of his writing pad! 

The differences were not hard to adjust. Secretly 

each respected the other, knew the other was doing 

good work and a man all through. Conley was sorry 

he had " mussed the doctor's humany frills," the 

[206] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

doctor that he had resented Conley's notion of so- 
ciabiHty. So by the second day I had them at hand- 
shakes, and the best of friends. 

That evening three army officers arrived — Major 
John G. Bourke, of the Third Cavalry, and Lieu- 
tenants Waite and Goldman, of the Fifth Cavalry. 
Major Bourke was well chosen for the task that 
brought him, viz., a study of the Sun Dance, due 
to begin the next morning, for his previous studies 
and writings on Moqui Snake Dancing, Zuni Fire 
Worship, and Apache Medicine Men remain the most 
valuable contributions to the literature of these 
subjects. 

On a bench above and to the east of the narrow 
valley of White Clay Creek stood the Agency. With- 
in a low wall, topped by a picket fence and nearest 
the creek, stood Dr. McGillicuddy's office, a hun- 
dred feet east his residence, beyond that the great 
Wakan-pomani building, the " Mysterious Give 
Away House," the ware- or storehouse that held 
the supplies sent by the Government for distribu- 
tion by the agent, probably first called Wakan 
(mysterious) by the Sioux because to them it must 
have been matter of mystery however such vast 
store of riches could be assembled at one time and 
place. Across the road from the Wakan-pomani 
[207] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

stood the store of the licensed Indian trader, Mr. 
Blanchard. 

In mid-forenoon of the next day all of us were 
assembled in Dr. McGillicuddy's office, by his invi- 
tation, to take ambulance for the dance — Major 
Bourke, Lieutenants Waite and Goldman, Mr. 
Blanchard, Charlie Conley, and myself. Mr. Lord, 
the doctor's clerk, and Louis Changro, his half- 
breed interpreter, were also in the office. 

Sword, Chief of Police, had been about with sev- 
eral of his men, but at the moment was outside. His 
men (and usually he himself) were uniformed neatly 
in blue jackets and trousers and soft black hats. 

But this morning Sword was a sartorial wonder. 
Above beautifully beaded moccasins of golden yel- 
low buckskin rose the graceful lines of well-fitting 
dark blue broadcloth trousers, circled at the waist 
by a beaded belt carrying two six-shooters and a 
knife, topped by a white shirt, standing collar, and 
black bow tie, and by a perfectly made vest and 
" cutaway " coat matching the trousers (the vest 
decorated with a metal watch-chain yellow as the 
moccasins), crested by a well-brushed silk top hat — 
while from beneath the top hat defiantly swung 
Sword's scalp-lock, a standing challenge to whom- 
soever dared try to take it! 
[208] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

And yet, despite this opera bouffe rig, Sword, 
with the bronze of handsome features ht by the 
flash of piercing black eyes, supple of movemenc, 
soft of tread, dignified in bearing, Sword stood 
a serious and even a heroic figure — the man who 
dared court the most bitter tribal opposition and 
enmity by undertaking the enforcement of white 
men's law as administered by Agent McGilli- 
cuddy. 

While we were quietly chatting, the rest of us 
pumping Bourke and the doctor for what they had 
of Sun Dance lore, suddenly we were interrupted 
by the startlingly quick entry of Sword, who slipped 
in softly and swiftly as a shadow and began a low- 
spoken, hurried statement to Changro. 

Presently Changro turned and interrupted: 

" Sword he say heap Injun come down White Clay 
— ride war ponies — all Brules. Sword he no like 
looks." 

And, after a glance out of the door, I am sure 
none of us liked the looks of things — of the things 
most actively animate in our immediate landscape — 
any more than Sword did. 

A band of between three and four hundred bucks 
sat their war ponies about three hundred yards 
from the gate. A thick cloud of dust behind and 
[209] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

south of them showed they had approached at top 
speed, and had just stopped, evidently for a con- 
ference. 

Presently ten advanced slowly toward the office 
gate, while the rest of the band withdrew the way 
they had come, ultimately stopping about eight hun- 
dred yards away. 

By Dr. McGillicuddy's advice, all of us resumed 
our seats. 

Acting almost in unison, curiously, evidently 
moved at the same moment by the same thought, 
several of us proceeded to take on a bit of extra 
insurance by slipping spare cartridges into the 
" hammer chamber " of our pistol cylinders, usually 
carried empty for purposes of better safety against 
accidental discharge. I am sure I should have been 
glad to have a pistol into which I could have emp- 
tied the entire contents of my full belt, for the odds 
against us looked rather long. 

The Brules, two thousand of whom had come over 
from Rosebud to attend the Sun Dance, were well 
known for an ugly, desperate lot. Indeed, they had 
been spoiled by an agent who lacked most of the good 
qualities McGillicuddy possessed. Honest enough in 
his administration, he was afraid of his charges, and 
they knew it and took advantage therefrom when 
[210] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

and how they pleased — even to the point of sub- 
jecting him to downright insult. At Rosebud Agen- 
cy, not the agent but Spotted Tail exercised au- 
thority. 

Indeed, it was common report that more than once 
Spot forced the agent to read to him letters writ- 
ten the Indian Bureau about Agency affairs, and 
snatched and tore up several he did not like and 
threw them in the agent's face. 

And it was a band of these bronze beauties now 
approaching — with some demand sure to be arro- 
gant and utterly unreasonable. 

Presently they entered the office, the ten of them, 
each with the outline of a rifle showing beneath his 
blanket, grunted a gruff " How ! " and squatted on 
the floor facing the agent, with their backs against 
the north wall of the room, nearest the door — a 
scowling, sinister lot, plainly come on no honest 
errand. 

After sitting in absolute silence fully ten min- 
utes the Brule chief, whose name I have forgotten — 
a tall, powerful buck of forty-five, with narrow-set, 
evil, ferret eyes — turned to Changro, the interpre- 
ter, and growled: 

" You tell agent we want grub ! " 

" You tell him, Louis," replied McGilhcuddy, " I 
[211] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

am advised by his agent that he and his people 
come fully rationed for the round trip." 

" You tell agent he must give us grub — now, 
NOW ! " fiercely demanded the chief. 

Looking the chief straight in the eye, a half-smile 
on his face, McGillicuddy quietly answered: 

" Louis, just tell him to go to hell — he gets no 
grub at this Agency." 

Instantly the chief bounded to his feet, swiftly 
crossed to the doctor's chair, and, angrily shaking 
his fist in the doctor's face, hoarsely shouted: 

" If you don't give us grub — now! — I'll kill every 
white man on this reservation." 

For an age, it seemed, the chief stood and j\Ic- 
Gillicuddy sat confronting each other, a wicked 
scowl on the chief's face, a smile on McGilllcuddy's. 

Presently I saw Mac's jaws tighten, and then, 
without a word, he sprang upon the chief, seized 
him by the throat, and shook him till his rifle fell 
to the floor, then rushed him to the door, whirled 
him around till a full if not a fair target was pre- 
sented, and then landed duly upon the target as 
liard a kick as any I ever saw delivered on a try 
for " goal," sending the chief sprawling nearly ten 
feet from the door, hurt of person and spirit by 
the indignity and half-smothered from the choking 
[212] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

— a little the maddest, most hideously snarling thing 
I ever saw. 

Immediately his nine henchmen ran out and helped 
him to his feet. 

Instinctively we all lined up outside the door, 
backs to the wall, and among us, to our surprise, 
came by magic about a dozen of Sword's youngster 
policemen, each fingering first the trigger and then 
the hammer of his rifle like a guitar player strum- 
ming for the key to a tune. 

" Reckon the ball's plumb open now, an' it's 
' swing partners,' " drawled Charlie Conley — the 
only remark made by any one I can now recall. 

For a few minutes it was touch and go for us. 
A single shot and it would have been all over in a 
very few minutes. Escape was quite as impossible 
as help. Indeed, the one troop of cavalry at Fort 
Sheridan, eighteen miles away, and the two troops 
at Fort Robinson, sixty miles distant, if pres- 
ent, would not have lasted an hour — the ball once 
opened. 

It was therefore a great, if only a temporary, 
relief when presently the chief and his men sullenly 
withdrew through the gate and retired toward his 
band. 

" Mama ! but won't hell pop good and plenty in 
[213] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

about half an hour when that old cofFee-cooler gits 
back with his bunch to finish the ball! But we'll 
sure make 'em think we can dance some befo' the 
music stops," expressed Conley's wholly experienced 
view of the situation. 

" Major Bourke," said the doctor, " you are the 
senior officer present — will you assume command?" 

" No, doctor," answered Bourke ; " you are in su- 
preme authority here, I on duty detached from my 
arm of the service ; and " — with a grim smile of 
approval — " you seem to me to be doing quite well 
enough. Command me as your aide." 

Without a word, Sword and his men had disap- 
peared toward their camp below the bluff, a hundred 
yards distant, as soon as the Brules left. And 
Sword's withdrawal was no small source of anxiety ; 
for, notwithstanding their apparently excellent con- 
duct through the crisis just past, nevertheless this 
was the first really serious test of the loyalty of his 
police. 

However, we were not long left in doubt.^ Indeed, 
our doubt was most gratefully relieved — after we 
got over the violent attack of heart disease super- 
induced by the manner of their return. 

The Brule chief and his band we had been watch- 
ing like hawks. Apparently none had been detached, 
[214] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

and they were still in conference several hundred 
yards away. 

Mrs. McGillicuddy and Mrs. Blanchard had been 
brought to the office — for whatever poor protection 
we could give them. 

Suddenly, out of the hidden valley beneath and 
west of us rose a thunder of hoofs that seemed to 
herald some newcomers to the ball we certainly had 
not invited. 

Down we all dropped behind the fence wall, rifles 
cocked and levelled, and we were barely down when 
up over the bluff, not thirty yards distant, charging 
us at mad speed, came a sure-enough war party. 
Keen eyes sought sights and fingers were already 
pressing triggers when Changro shouted: 

" No shoot ! Sword he come ! " 

It was indeed our trusty Sword, with every man- 
jack of his youngsters ! 

Reining in at the gate. Sword quietly led his men 
behind — to the' south of — the office, left the ponies 
in charge of a few horse holders, and then lined his 
men along the wall beside us — honest Sword! ready 
to come to death grips with his own flesh and blood 
in defence of his white chief! 

Dr. McGillicuddy may have known a prouder and 
happier moment than this, but I doubt it. 
[215] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

But what a transformed Sword now stood among 
us ! How changed he and his men ! 

The years had rolled back; yea, indeed, the cen- 
turies ! 

In ten minutes we had lost a regularly uniformed 
police force, led by a chief habited like a veritable 
civilised dandy, and had gained in its stead a band 
of barbarian allies, absolutely naked to their mocca- 
sins and scanty breech-cloths, their faces black- 
painted and half hidden beneath great war bonnets 
of streaming eagle feathers, as were those of their 
savage ancestors whenever they went to war or when 
their " hearts were bad " and they sought to kill in 
private quarrel; so habited and painted, their for- 
bears sought their enemies way back in the dim past 
when their race dominated much of the Atlantic 
coast, when even the mound builders were still young. 

Naked, also, to the bridle were their war ponies. 

But however habited, whatever their motives of 
allegiance — whether of attachment and fidelity to 
their white chief or, what was far more likely, of 
pride of office and conceit of authority — welcome to 
us, indeed, these brave lads were. 

And they got to us none too soon ; for, before 
they were well settled behind the wall (that made 
us an excellent breastwork), here came the Brules, 
[216] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

liell-a-ta-tilt, quirts pounding on straining shoulders, 
moccasined heels drumming on heaving flanks, the 
fierce riders lying low over the withers and getting 
every last jump out of their piebald cayuse mounts. 

Here they came — nearly four hundred of them — 
charging straight on our position before the office, 
an irregular but solid mass of straining horses and 
yelling riders, apparently bent upon riding us down 
—a living, breathing, sentient yet remorseless tide, 
weighty enough to raze wall and office to the ground 
at the first impact, and leave naught behind but 
splintered boards and bones. 

Here they came and there we sat, ours far the 
hardest part of it ; theirs the excitement and hope 
of conquest born of a charge in overwhelming num- 
bers, ours the dull, chill wait for the end bred of 
a sense of hopeless odds against us ; theirs the hot, 
savage lust for blood, ours the despair of men con- 
demned past hope of reprieve. 

Hope.'' Such sentiment for us no more existed. 
Even were we able to withstand the Brules for a 
time, it still remained a certainty the prevailing hos- 
tility to the police would bring the whole Ogallala 
tribe in upon us so soon as powder burned and blood 
ran. 

The doctor's orders were simple: 
[217] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" Fire under no circumstances till ordered ! " No 
more. 

On they came, and yet on ! 

Time and again I caught a bead on the chief's 
breast with my .45-120 Sharps that easily might 
have sent him into permanent camp on Ghost Creek, 
and it is a miracle I — or none of the others — pulled 
trigger. 

At length, when their steady on-rush must have 
become trying even to McGillicuddy's iron nerves, 
they reined in and stopped a scant sixty yards in 
front of us — why, God only knows, unless the 
steady nerve of his control of us got on their nerves. 
But stop, happily, they did — a grim, heaving, 
threatening mass, darkly outlined against the wall 
of gray dust behind them, feathered war bonnets 
dancing, ponies prancing, shields rattling, weapons 
gleaming. 

And there they stayed, for Heaven only knows 
how long, until it would have been a relief to see 
the charge renewed. 

With the best of us there's a breaking point. 
Presently McGillicuddy's was reached. 

" Jump out there, Louis," he called to the inter- 
preter, " and tell that old devil to chase himself 
back to camp. I'll give him five minutes before we 
[218] 



McGILLICUDDY'S SWORD 

fire, no more. Tell him, if ever he bats his eyes at 
me again I'll just choke him to death for luck " — a 
cropping out of the old Anglo-Saxon confidence in 
good bare hands against an armed brute! 

Out sprang Changro with the message, and up 
jumped the doctor on the wall, watch in hand, pre- 
pared to time the making of his message good. 

Half-way Changro stopped and shouted his mes- 
sage, and then returned to us. It was a plucky deed 
of him, for none of us expected to shake his hand 
again. 

Then ensued a brief, heated parley among the 
Brules. Judging by his angry gesticulations, the 
chief, bursting with resentment, wanted to charge. 
The rest of the band — most of them, at least — 
seemed to be opposing it : apparently, seven or eight 
minutes' contemplation of the mouths of our one 
hundred rifles left the Brules little stomach to wait 
to hear them speak. 

Hold them the old chief could not, and they 
turned and rode off south, up White Clay, toward 
Sun Dance Flat. 

And then I awakened to a curious fact I wish 
some clever physiologist would explain, an experi- 
ence had before this incident, and since when placed 
in like circumstances — either under threatened or 
[219] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

actual fire: while it was mid-forenoon and not ex- 
tremely hot, while the affair had lasted little if any 
more than forty minutes and we had been subjected 
to no physical exertion, I found I had developed a 
consuming, burning thirst and parched mouth quite 
as distressing as that I felt once when in the desert 
two full days without water. And others have told 
me they have had like droll experience under simi- 
lar conditions. 



[220] 



CHAPTER NINE 
THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

TWELVE THOUSAND WILD SIOUX SUN WORSHIPPERS SACRIFICE TO 
THEIR DEITY SIGNIFICANCE OF THE DANCE 

THE Sun Dance was a great public ceremonial 
rite held so sacred and so dear by Sioux 
Sun Worshippers that we know little more 
of its real significance than of the Druid rites at 
Stonehenge that awed and swayed the early Britons, 
less than we know of Aztec Fire Worship. It was a 
rite held but once a year — always in the full of a 
spring moon, usually in June, when the green grass 
Avas well up and the ponies fat and strong and ready 
for whatever desperate foray the excitement of the 
dance might inspire. 

The last great Sun Dance, that assembled all of 

the Ogallalas or Lakotah Sioux, and a third of the 

Brules, and I believe the last actual dance ever held, 

occurred at Red Cloud's Agency on White Clay 

[221 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Creek in Southern Dakota, either in the spring of 
1880 or 1881, I cannot be certain which. 

I had ridden over to the Agency on a day's busi- 
ness, and just as I was about to saddle and start for 
home, the agent. Dr. McGillicuddy, told me the Sun 
Dance was about to begin, and that it would probably 
be the last great Sun Dance the Sioux would ever 
hold ; that, in addition to his ten thousand Ogallalas, 
two thousand of Spotted Tail's Brules from the Rose- 
bud Agency had arrived to attend the dance, and 
that three army officers (Major John Bourke and 
Lieutenants Waite and Goldman) were due that 
evening, specially detailed to study and report upon 
its mysteries and significance, and invited me to re- 
main and see the ceremony, which I was only too glad 
— then — to do. 

While worshippers of many different objects, un- 
doubtedly the worship of the sun as a divinity was 
the very keystone of the Sioux's religion. Whether 
the sun was held to be Wakantanka, or 1'he Great 
Spirit, in person, or whether the sun was worshipped 
as most highly emblematic of Wakantanka, I never 
could learn. Certain it is that it was to the sun alone 
the Sioux warrior appealed, by devout sacrifice, fast- 
ing or feast, in his most dire dilemmas and when about 
to engage in his most desperate enterprises. 
[222] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

And since plainly the sun is all-powerful to give or 
to deny, the maker of heat and light, the giver of the 
generous warmth and the shedder of the copious tears 
that makes the grass to grow that fattens alike the 
buffalo and the ponies, and that, later, serves to 
ripen the wild plum and the sarvis berry, the maize, 
the gooseberry, and the turnip, why indeed should 
not Sioux sufferers supplicate his charity and lar- 
gess, and Sioux adventurers into perils beseech his 
aid? 

Of the inner significance of the various ceremonies 
incident to the dance we know little. 

Certain, however, it is that no cultsman, civilised 
or pagan, ever bent before the throne of his spiritual 
allegiance with more of profound faith and reverence, 
or took more pains to purify the body by cleansing 
and to exalt the spirit by fasting before supplicating 
and sacrificing to his deity, than did the Sioux Sun 
Dancer. 

Any could participate in the Sun Dance proper, 
but few did. Motives for participation in the last 
extreme rites were various. 

Parents having a child mortally ill often made a 
vow to Wakantanka that if the child's life were 
spared they would dance the next Sun Dance. 

A like vow was made by a warrior having a deadly 
[223] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

enemy — as recompense for aid in safely putting the 
enemy Avhcre he could do no more harm. 

Sioux in deadly peril of flood or famine so vowed — 
as pledge for help to escape their peril. 

Young bucks yet untried in war so vowed and 
danced — to prove their courage. 

For a year the Indian Bureau had been struggling 
to destroy the tribal relation of these people, to clip 
the authority of the chiefs, to induce them to till the 
soil and build houses, and thus to wean them from 
their nomadic habits and teach them the value of 
peace and industry. 

And that, in some ways, they were not so slow to 
" catch on " was proved effectively when Gen. James 
R. O'Bierne came out as the Special Agent of the In- 
dian Bureau and called a council of the chiefs of the 
tribe to tell them what the Great Father proposed to 
do for them. After an eloquent eulogy of peace and 
the comforts and prosperity it brings, and a grim 
picture of the distresses entailed by war, he told them 
that to every head of a family who would abandon 
his tepee and build a house of one room, the Great 
Father would present a cooking stove, with a heat- 
ing stove thrown in for a house of two rooms; that 
they would be given waggons, ploughs, hoes, scythes, 
rakes, etc. 

[224] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

Evidently the interpreter had translated " scythe " 
as " a knife that cuts grass," for immediately 
O'Bierne finished, up rose an old chief named No 
Flesh and asked: 

" What does the chief say we are to get ? " and the 
interpreter repeated the offer. 

" You tell the chief to tell the Great Father," an- 
swered No Flesh, " that we don't want knives that 
cut grass — nothing the white man has thrown aside 
— we want waggons that cut grass." 

And mowing-machines No Flesh's people got ! 

This year the Sioux must dance and sacrifice with 
no guests present but Spot's band of Brules. Of the 
other guests from time immemorial usually bidden to 
this ceremony, the Omahas and Pawnees were already 
so nearly shut in by and absorbed into the settle- 
ments to the southeast, that only the memory lin- 
gered in the minds of the elders of their approaching 
cavalcades, bright with glitter of arms and brilliant 
with every colour of the rainbow, outlined against the 
white walls of the Niobrara bluffs or a thread of many 
colours winding through the sombre pines that crest- 
ed their summits ; while the Cheyennes left within the 
United States since Dull Knife's last fight at Fort 
Robinson were few and scattered, the Nez Perce well- 
nigh extinct, and the Blackfeet, Crees, ]\Iandans, and 
[225] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Gros Ventres were pressed back, within narrow reser- 
vation lines, tight up against the Canadian border, 
a full moon's journey distant. 

The tepees of the tribe were strung out for miles 
along the valleys of White Clay and Wounded Knee, 
more thickly clustered into villages at irregular in- 
tervals about the lodge of one or another of the sub- 
chiefs that owned their fealty. 

At twilight of this eventide criers were out in 
every village, with weightier news and orders than 
any their soft monotones had conveyed since the issu- 
ance of Sitting Bull's call to arms and to assembly 
on the Little Big Horn — criers who paused at points 
of vantage through the villages, called for attention 
and cried the stirring news that, by order of Red 
Cloud and his elder counsellors, the time for the Sun 
Dance had come, and that on the following morning 
the entire tribe would assemble on the great flat two 
miles south of the Agency, and there pitch their 
tepees in the vast circle prescribed by Sun Dance tra- 
ditions. 

The scene the next morning was like a savage 
Derby day. For hours, indeed throughout the live- 
long day, a broad stream of primitive humanity swept 
past the Agency buildings, filling the valley from rim 
to rim, en route to Sun Dance Flat — as since it has 
[226] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

been known — a stream that ebbed and flowed a bit 
but never stopped till the entire tribe, with all their 
wealth of lodges, weapons, implements, and domestic 
chattels, freighted on travois or on the backs of 
ponies, had reached the designated camping site; a 
stream gay of temper as in its colours, all keen for 
the feasts and agog for the excitement of the coming 
ceremony. 

With the valley too narrow to allow of a perfect 
circle with so many tepees pitched close together in 
a single row, an ellipse was formed parallel with the 
general course of the stream, with a length north 
and south of something over a mile, and a breadth at 
the centre of nearly three quarters of a mile, with, at 
the extreme north end, a broad entrance or opening 
in the otherwise solid ellipse of the tepees. 

All this work of removal and arrangement of the 
lodges was conducted with perfect discipline under 
the direction of the chiefs or their lieutenants, aided 
by specially designated armed bailiffs who were quick 
to punish breaches of discipline or disobedience of 
orders with no light hand. 

A second day was allowed for settling this horde 
of people, making place for Spot's Brules, who had 
come in the day before, correcting the tepee align- 
ment and restoring order. 

[227] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

On the next day, the third, a small band of not 
more than ten or twelve of the most noted warriors 
of the tribe were named by the chiefs to go out into 
the hills and select the Wahkan (Mystery) tree, to 
be cut and used as the Sun (Centre) Pole of the 
great Sun Dance Tepee later to be built. 

For this emprise the participants decked them- 
selves as for battle, with all the gauds of their savage 
war equipment, mounted their best war ponies, and 
then circled the camp, each chanting the personal 
deeds that had won him the honour to make one of 
the Wahkan tree hunters. 

And then they rode out into the hills. Toward 
evening they returned, and, having found a satis- 
factory tree, they cut out a broad square of sod near 
the centre of the camp, exposing the generous brown 
loam beneath, as the site for the Sun Pole — the cen- 
tre of the Sun Lodge. 

The doings on Sun Dance Flat the first and 
second days were told us, for none of us visited 
tlie Flat until the tliird day — and then I know at 
least one of the little party was none too glad he 
had come. 

The " political " situation at the Agency was then 
under tense strain. As a part of his efforts to stop 
the Sioux from plundering neighbouring ranch horse 
[228] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

herds, and to maintain better order on the reserva- 
tion, Dr. McGilhcuddy had recently organised a 
pohce force of a hundred young bucks, and had made 
a magnificent young warrior named Sword their cap- 
tain. Red Cloud, and indeed the entire tribe, bitterly 
objected to the organisation of this force, and had 
threatened active hostility toward it. Indeed, Sword's 
police had made themselves specially obnoxious by 
backing up the doctor in' his opposition to unreason- 
able demands by the visiting Brules. So it was very 
much of a problem whether it would be safe for us to 
go to the dance. 

But when, the morning of the third day, Dr. Mc- 
Gilhcuddy and Major Bourke discussed the wisdom 
of making our contemplated visit to the dance, both 
agreed a bold front was likely to permanently settle 
the Brules's grouch and the Ogallalas' resentment 
of the doctor's police organisation, more likely than 
to stay tight at the Agency, and leave them sus- 
picious we were afraid of them. Indeed, any available 
defences at the Agency were so poor we were as well 
off at one place as another. 

So two ambulances were soon brought and we 
trotted off up the creek toward the Sun Dance, 
Sword's police half ahead of and half behind us in a 
fairly well-formed column of twos. 
[ 229] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Come to the Sun Dance Camp, the scene was one 
never to be forgotten. The camp lay on a broad, level 
bench of the valley, probably a mile and a half long, 
a green wall of cottonwoods lining the stream to the 
west, while south and east rose tall bluffs thickly cov- 
ered with pines. The tepees were pitched in a single 
row to form a vast ellipsoid, in its breadth occupy- 
ing the entire width of the valley and nearly filling 
it from end to end. The centre of the ellipsoid was 
entirely open, like the parade-ground of a big gar- 
rison. 

Here were no divisions of class. The tepees of the 
rich and of the poor hobnobbed side by side — here a 
magnificent tall lodge covered with splendid buffalo 
robes painted with the totem of the family, there a 
miserable low hut little better than a temporary 
wickiup, ill-covered with fragments of rent and worn 
canvas. 

And in and out among the tepees swarmed the 
Sioux host, a moving frame of brilliant colours en- 
closing the bright green of the central plain, the 
dark blue and bright red of broadcloth blankets and 
leggings, and the golden yellow of buckskin pre- 
vaihng. 

When well within the circle. Sword asked the doc- 
tor to stop the ambulances a few minutes. He then 
[230] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

proceeded to put his police through a mounted com- 
pany drill of no mean accuracy, good enough to 
command the commendation of Major Bourke and 
Lieutenants Waite and Goldman. 

The drill finished, and without the least hint to us 
of his purpose, Sword suddenly broke his cavalry 
formation and, at the head of his men, started a mad 
charge, in disordered savage mass, straight at the 
nearest point of the line of tepees to the west; and, 
come within twenty yards of the line, reined to the 
left parallel to the line, and so charged round the 
entire circle, his men shouting their war-cries and 
shooting as fast as they could load and fire over the 
heads of their people, sometimes actually through 
the tops of the lodges. 

It was Sword's challenge to the tribe ! One hundred 
challenging twelve thousand! 

And luckily for us all the bluff was not called. The 
tribe ducked to cover within their tepees like rabbits 
to their warrens. 

Altogether it made about the most uncomfortable 
ten or fifteen minutes I ever passed, for we had noth- 
ing to do but sit idly in our ambulances, awaiting 
whatever row his mad freak might stir. 

At length, the circuit finished, Sword drew up 
proudly before us and saluted, his horses heav- 
[231 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

ing of flank and dripping of sides, and spoke to 
Changro. 

Then Louis interpreted: 

" Sword he say now Sioux be good Injun — no 
bother police any more ! They know they eat us up 
quick, but then Great Father send heap soldier eat 
them up ! ! " 

And so it proved, for to the performance of the 
duties required of the police by the agent, there was 
never again active opposition. 

After a quick turn about the camp we drove back 
to the Agency. Arrived there, all drew a deep breath, 
and then drank deep to an impromptu toast, sug- 
gested by Inspector Conley the moment his glass was 
filled: 

" Here's to the pretty d d good luck that we- 

uns still wears our hair ! " 

The fourth morning we were out at the camp 
bright and early and spent the day there — and a busy 
day indeed it proved for the tribe and their visitors. 

At dawn of this morning a tepee two or three 
times the size of the largest ordinarily used was set 
up within the circle, due east of the point chosen for 
the Sun Pole, and nearer to the line of the tepees 
than to the pole. This was in effect a great medi- 
cine lodge, within which all the candidates for the 
[232] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

dance were that morning assembled by the medi- 
cine men, and therein kept closely secluded, none 
being permitted to enter except certain designated 
attendants. 

For the three preceding days all the candidates 
had been purifying themselves for the ceremony by 
a very rigorous fast and an almost uninterrupted 
succession of sweat-baths. 

Of nourishment for these days, and indeed through 
the remaining four days of the dance, the dancers 
partook of little except the frequent nibbling of white 
sage leaves, bound like wreaths or great bracelets 
about their wrists, and occasionally renewed. The 
floor of the medicine lodge, moreover, was strewn 
thickly with white sage, and indeed sage seemed to 
play an important part throughout the dance, for 
the dancers were frequently rubbing their breasts 
with handfuls of the herb, why, we could only con- 
jecture — perhaps from an exaggerated value set 
upon its medicinal virtues. 

Their sweat-bath was as effective as it was primi- 
tive. It was simply a wickiup, a low hut built by 
sticking the thick ends of brush or slender boughs 
into the earth about a circle six or eight feet in 
diameter and interlacing their tops. This hive-shaped 
frame was thickly covered with buffalo robes till 
[233] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

tight as a drum. Large, hot stones, heated in a nearby 
fire, were rolled into the hut, the bathers, naked, then 
entered with a vessel of water and sat down about the 
heated stones, while one of their number began dip- 
ping the " bush " of a buffalo tail in the water and 
sprinkling the stones. Thus the lodge was kept 
densely filled with steam, and there the bathers sat 
and took it as long as they could stand it, then ran 
out and plunged into and refreshed themselves in the 
nearest stream or pool and resumed the steaming 
process. 

About nine o'clock in the morning practically the 
entire tribe mounted and assembled outside the circle. 
None were left in the tepees except the old and in- 
firm and youngsters too small to ride. At a signal 
from the chief medicine man, and led by the men who 
had selected the Wahkan tree, all started at best 
speed of their ponies as mad a charge upon the tree 
(a mile distant) as ever upon an enemy in war — up 
a steep slope, across a rocky, timbered hogback, 
down into and through a ravine, upon the farther 
slope of which stood the chosen *' Mystery Tree." 

About the tree the tribe was soon so densely massed 
that we could see little of ceremonies that occupied 
more than an hour. 

Then the medicine men pressed the throng back 
[234] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

and four young warriors, honoured by selection as 
the fellers of the tree, approached the tree, and each 
in turn first proudly told the story of his most daring 
deeds in battle, and then struck the tree one heavy 
blow with an axe, each striking it on the opposite 
sides representing the four cardinal points of the 
compass, the first blow falling, if my memory rightly 
serves, on the east side. 

This done, a young squaw, held, we were told, to 
be of unblemished reputation, dressed in a beautiful 
white tanned (unsmoked) fawn skin tunic, covered 
with concentric rows of elk teeth (these teeth then a 
standard currency of the tribe, having a value of a 
dollar each), sprang forward, grasped the axe, and 
quickly finished the felling of the tree. 

Next the four men who first struck the tree pro- 
ceeded to trim it neatly of all branches, until it re- 
mained a graceful length of springy poplar, perhaps 
ten inches in diameter at the base. Then the pole was 
travoised back to camp, with greatest care not to 
man-handle it, for to touch it or even to travel in 
advance of it seemed either a breach of the ritual or 
an offence threatening heavy penalty or hazard of 
some sort. 

Upon reaching the summit of a low hillock, near 
and overlooking the Sun Flat, the mass of the tribe 
[235] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

stopped, and a few elders advanced with the Sun 
Pole and set it firmly in its chosen place. 

Then ensued the wildest charge conceivable — all 
the mounted warriors galloping through the broad 
north entrance of the circle and rushing at top speed 
upon the Sun Pole, until, under pressure of converg- 
ing lines, many horses and riders went down, not a 
few to serious injury. Finally out of the heaving, 
struggling, panting, bleeding mass at last a young 
warrior was borne out in honour, as having been the 
first to strike the pole. 

The chiefs and their aides soon had the rout un- 
tangled, and all were ordered to their tepees, save a 
large band (chiefly squaws), that quickly set about 
the erection of the Sun Dance Lodge proper. 

This lodge as built was circular in form and, I 
should think, more than two hundred feet in diam- 
eter. Two rows of posts, forked at the top, were set 
about this circle about fifteen or twenty feet apart, 
the outer posts probably eight feet high, the inner 
about ten feet. The spaces between the outer circle 
of posts were then closely filled in by sticking thick 
pine boughs in the ground, thus making a tight en- 
closure, with no opening save the main entrance on 
its eastern side. Shelter was then furnished by 
stretching robes and tepee cloths above the spaces 
[236] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

between the outer and inner posts — and the lodge 
was done, ready for the next day's ceremonies in the 
great central circle about the Sun Pole, open to the 
sky, and about one hundred and fifty feet in diam- 
eter. 

The next morning, the fifth, we reached the lodge 
at dawn and found it packed to overflowing, the 
dancers gathered in the central ring, naked above 
the waist, but covered below by red and blue blank- 
ets belted about the loins, all wearing sage " wrist- 
lets." 

As well as I can remember, there were forty-odd 
dancers, none past middle life, a few comparative 
youths, and one squaw. We were told the squaw and 
her husband were dancing as the fulfilment of a vow 
to endure its punishment if the life of a sick child 
were spared. 

The space within the lodge beneath the shelter was 
crowded with the tribe, all tricked out in their bravest 
finery. Many of the richer of the squaws were dressed 
in golden yellow or snow white buck or fawn skin 
tunics, soft as velvet, falling half-way between knees 
and feet, some of the tunics with broad yoke or stole- 
shaped decoration of a solid mass of turquoise blue 
beads, edged with a narrow row of red beads, and 
some more or less covered with rows of elk teeth — 
[237] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

some of these latter representing hundreds of dollars 
In value, and going to prove that Eve's daughters 
had an inconvenient knack of making themselves a 
most extravagant luxury long before the first modiste 
wrought in silks, laces, and velvets. The brilliant 
colours and rich bead-work of the men's costumes 
and the barbaric magnificence of their feathered war 
bonnets are too well known to take space here. 

There was one costume, however, that deserves 
mention, as does also the wearer. Little Big Man, the 
proudest of them all, who, while owning a scant five 
feet in height, had the breadth and depth of chest, 
and length and power of arms of a giant, and who 
had the reputation of being one of the most desperate 
and ruthless warriors of the tribe. Some one had pre- 
sented him, or perhaps, indeed, he had won in the 
Custer fight, a captain's blouse, in very good condi- 
tion, and just as we entered the lodge. Little Big 
Man, proudly wearing this uniform coat, fell in be- 
hind us. Camp stools had been brought for Mrs. Mc- 
Gillicuddy and Mrs. Blanchard, the trader's wife, and 
when they were seated at the inner edge of the circle 
and we grouped near them. Little Big Man squatted 
upon the ground beside them, evidently })ent upon 
winning their admiration. Presently, apparently 
thinking he was not creating the sensation justly 
[ 238 ] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

his due, he rose, unbuttoned, and removed his blouse, 
and so stood beside them, completely naked to the 
waist, his broad breast and gi'eat, sinewy arms show- 
ing a dozen or more scars of deadly tussles in which, 
to be here alive, he must have bested the enemy, each 
scar emphasised by a dab of red paint streaming like 
blood beneath it. After himself alternately admiring 
these scars and looking to the ladies for approval, he 
gravely resumed his blouse and his seat. 

And then a funny thing happened. Scarcely was he 
seated, when a tall, handsome young squaw stepped 
in front of him, bent quickly, and scooped up a double 
handful of sand and threw it in his face. Instantly he 
pulled a six-shooter and fired to kill her, but, blinded 
by the sand and his arm knocked up by another In- 
dian, the ball flew high above the heads of all — and 
then for five minutes the lodge rang with such peals 
of derisive laughter that Little Big Man slunk away 
into the crowd and was not seen by us again at the 
Sun Dance. 

Changro explained the cause of the incident lay in 
Little Big Man's evil tongue, that In camp gossip 
the night before he had besmirched this young 
woman's character, and that she thus took the first 
opportunity to give him the lie in the good old tribal 
way. 

[ 239 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

Just as the sun rose above the horizon, the dance 
in his honour began. 

The dancers were ranged in separate rows, eight 
or ten dancers to the row. They stood shoulder to 
shoulder, facing east, a little wooden whistle in the 
mouth of each. 

At the boom of a great medicine tomtom, each ex- 
tended his arms forward and upward toward the sun, 
hands open and palms turned outward, bent slightly 
at the knee, and began a slow but steady rising on the 
ball of the foot and dropped back on the heels, which 
was the only movement of the " dance " proper, his 
eyes gazing unblinkingly upon the sun, a pipe of each 
whistle accompanying each " step " of the dance. 
And so they whistled and gazed and danced for hours, 
and days indeed, till noon of the third succeeding 
day, their arms occasionally rested by dropping them 
to the sides, their eyes by a medicine man standing 
behind each row holding inclined forward above their 
heads a long wand, from the top of which a small 
feather dangled at the end of a long string, and as 
the feather was blown about by the wind, each dancer 
closely followed its every shift by movement of head 
and eyes. 

Only at long intervals, and when exhausted well 
nigh to the point of falling in their tracks, were the 
[240] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

ranks broken and the dancers given a brief rest, a 
mouthful of broth, and fresh sage armlets. 

Throughout this dance no word was spoken to or 
by the dancers, as far as we could see ; they were left 
to rapt mental concentration upon the subject of 
whatever vow or prayer had moved them to this sacri- 
fice to their deity. 

Throughout the continuation of the Sun Dance 
proper, which was largely confined to the south side 
of the great central ring, an endless succession of 
other ceremonies was going on, some of which are 
still clear to me, but many of which I no longer can 
recall. 

About noon of this day the " Buffalo Dance " be- 
gan, and lasted through the better part of the after- 
noon. Bar a great herd of several thousand buffalo 
then still ranging far to the northwest of the Black 
Hills, this magnificent animal, which for generations 
had furnished the tribe their most highly prized food 
and clothing supply, had forever disappeared from 
the plains, fallen before the mercenary rifles of white 
robe hunters, who took pelts by hundreds of thou- 
sands, and left carcasses to rot and bones to whiten 
where their quarry fell. That they were all dead and 
gone, and disappeared for good and all no Sioux 
could then be made to believe; for had they not 
[241 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

alwaj's found them migratory as were they them- 
selves, had not their ancestors long generations back 
travoised westward from the very foothills of the 
Appalachians, following the slow drift of the buf- 
falo toward the setting sun? Often, to be sure, they 
disappeared from some favourite camp site, like the 
French Lick, but never more than a few days' jour- 
ney was needed to locate untold thousands of these 
great black beauties, comfortably settled on fresh 
range. 

Apparently this dance was an appeal for a return 
of the prolific herds. 

It was opened by a long invocation, addressed ap- 
parently to the sun by an aged medicine man. Then 
he attached to a rope hanging from the top of the 
Wahkan pole first the figure of a man, about eigh- 
teen inches in length, and beneath it the figure of a 
buffalo bull, each cut out of pieces of rawhide. These 
figures were fashioned with extraordinary fidelity to 
every detail of every outline of man and animal, and, 
indeed, were startlingly complete. When so attached, 
these figures remained swinging about fifteen feet 
above the ground. Next, heralded by the low-toned, 
booming notes of the tomtom, entered at a sharp 
trot a chief, mounted, at the head of forty or fifty 
dismounted warriors, all stripped and painted as for 
[242] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

war, each armed with rifle or pistol, and circled three 
times around the pole from left to right, who, as they 
ran, loaded and fired as rapidly as possible at the pen- 
dent figures, chanting as they ran. The third circuit 
finished, the chief led his men to the west of the ring 
and grouped them facing the pole. 

Thereafter in rapid succession so entered, ran, 
shot, and chanted other squads, until probably five 
hundred warriors were so assembled. By this time 
both figures were bullet-riddled, but still hanging 
where first placed. 

Then the entire band, made up of the several 
squads, started trotting about the pole, massed so 
closely about it that many were firing practically 
straight up in the air, so straight it was simply a 
miracle that none in or about the lodge were killed 
or hurt by the actual rain of bullets certainly falling 
near about us. Really, one might almost as well have 
been under direct fire. 

" Boys," called Conley, hunching his head down 
deep between his shoulders, " I surely neve' had no 
use fer them slickers on top o' a stick tenderfeet 
holds over their haids in a rain, but if they've got 
airy one g'aranteed bum-proof, mama ! but wouldn't 
she come handy now ! An' th' hell of it is if airy one 
o' us gets winged, we won't know which o' them lead 
[ 243] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

rain-makers we ought to kill ! Wish we was all prairie 
dogs an' close to ou' holes ! " 

Sentiments I am certain every one of us cordially 
echoed, for during the hour or more this Buffalo 
Dance lasted, there was scarcely a moment we were 
not directly threatened with the receipt of a heavier 
load of lead than we could walk off with. 

Finally, when a ball cut the rope between man and 
buffalo, and the latter fell to the ground, instantly 
the dance ceased, and a warrior was seized and borne 
aloft in honour from the ring, apparently as the pot- 
ter of the buffalo, though however they could tell 
whose shot brought down the image was past under- 
standing. 

Toward evening we all drove back to the Agency 
for supper. 

About nine o'clock Conley, Changro, and I rode 
back to the Sun Dance, and there remained tli rough- 
out the night ; and there, too, in and about the lodge, 
stayed the entire tribe, feasting on stewed dog and 
coffee, stuffing themselves hour after hour to a sur- 
feit none but a savage could stand, discussing the 
ceremony, boasting how well some kinsman dancer 
was enduring his fast and dance, and hotting that he 
would honourably acquit himself in the final torture 
of the " tie-up " to the Sun Pole, yarned, laughed, 
[244] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

and amused themselves as did the old Roman audi- 
ence while slippery, dark red patches in the arena 
were being sprinkled with sand, in preparation for 
the entry of the next group of gladiators. 

And throughout the slow-dragging hours of the 
night the dance went on, with few brief intervals of 
rest, the monotonous drone of the feeble whistles 
keeping time to the pad-pad, pad-pad of dropping 
heels, the eyes of every dancer fixed fast upon the 
moon — for, as sister to the sun, she next to him held 
their reverence. 

As for ourselves, little attention was paid to us by 
the Sioux — a few were surly, but most indifferent. 

To us the scene was weird and awful past adequate 
description. 

In the central ring, dimly lighted by the moon 
and stars, the thin, wasted, haggard forms of the 
fasting dancers looked like pale ghosts of demons, 
prey-hunting in a spirit land. 

Beneath the shadow of the shelter, half lighted by 
many little camp fires over which dogs were stewing, 
beef roasting, and coffee boiling, the tribe was gath- 
ered, grouped closest about the fires whose flickering 
flames tinted the bronze of the savage Sioux faces to 
such a sinister shade of red as made the merriest of 
them something to shudder at. 
[245] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

The following day was almost wholly given up — 
in so far as the side ceremonies were concerned — to a 
rite nearly akin to, if not identical with, Christian 
baptism. Babies born within the year were brought 
by their fathers and mothers to an old medicine man, 
who, taking each child in turn, held it up toward the 
sun, and then laid it at the foot of the Sun Pole. 
Next he drew a narrow-bladcd knife, extended its 
point first east, next west, then north and south, and 
then proceeded to pierce the child's ears. This fin- 
ished, and the child restored to its mother, a grand- 
father or father of the family made an address, in 
which he besought for the child the friendship of the 
tribe and their best wishes for its health, for its suc- 
cess in chase and war if a man child, for its happy 
marriage if a girl, ending by humbly begging the 
poor of the tribe to come and receive as free gifts all 
the largess the family were able to bestow, a char- 
itable offering or sacrifice in behalf of favour for 
the child. 

While the address was in progress, the squaws were 
piling near the pole all the goods the family could 
afford, and, in the cases of several exceptionally fond 
parents, evidently far more than they could afford — 
yards of blue and red broadcloth, calicoes, moccasins, 
tunics, leggings, some newly made for this offering, 
[246] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

some taken then and there from the wearers' persons, 
provisions, parfteches, saddles, and a few arms. One 
loving mother, a really beautiful young squaw, 
stripped off and added to her pile a superb fawn skin 
tunic, ornamented with not less than two or three 
hundred elk teeth worth a dollar apiece. 

Many added one or more horses to their offering. 
I remember Trader Blanchard told me that the week 
before the Sun Dance he sold sixty thousand yards 
of various cloths, besides many other goods, for offer- 
ings at this dance! 

The elder's speech finished and the gifts gathered, 
a stampede and greedy scramble for this wealth en- 
sued, in which it seemed to me rich vied with poor for 
the prizes. But it was a good-natured struggle — the 
first to lay hands on was the one to have — and there 
was little of first right disputing. The horse gifts 
made no end of fun, for they were turned loose in the 
ring without even a bit of rope on, and not a few were 
unbroken broncos, resentful of man-handling, and yet 
only to be taken by coup de main. Young bucks lit 
all over each offered horse like flies, only to be kicked 
or tossed galley west, until at length some lucky one 
got a stout grip on mane with one hand and nostrils 
with the other, thus choking the struggling prize to 
surrender. 

[247] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

At noon of the succeeding day the hour of supreme 
sacrificial trial had arrived for all who had vowed to 
undergo it — the " tieing up " to the Sun Pole — of 
whom, according to my recollection, there were only 
nine, and it found them wan, thin, and exhausted of 
body, but still strong of spirit. 

Four-plait rawhide ropes hung from the top of the 
pole, the lower half of each unbraided and twisted 
into two strands, a loop at the end of each. 

Each candidate in turn was laid at the foot of 
the Sun Pole. The chief medicine man then drew his 
narrow-bladed knife, extended it toward each of the 
four cardinal points of the compass, bent over the 
candidate, and passed the blade beneath and through 
a narrow strip of flesh on each breast, the puncture 
being scarcely more than a half-inch in breadth, stuck 
a stout, hardwood skewer through each of the two 
openings so made, and, lastly, looped each of the two 
ends of one of the hanging ropes over each of the 
two skewers — torture the candidates endured without 
plaint or the flinching of a muscle. 

This finished, the candidate was helped to his feet 
and given a long, stout staff — to help him in his ter- 
rible task of rending his own flesh till the skewers were 
torn from their lodgment in his breast ! 

Some pulled slowly but steadily and strongly back- 
[ 248 ] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

ward, aided by their staffs, until the skin of their 
breasts was drawn out eighteen inches, while that of 
their backs was tight as a drum head. Others jumped 
and bucked on their ropes like a bronco suffering the 
indignity of his first saddle. 

Yet no cry escaped their lips ; no eye showed pain ! 

On they struggled, and yet on, blood flowing freely 
from their wounds, until worn nature could do no 
more, and one after another fell fainting on his 
leash ! 

To fail of breaking loose was a lasting disgrace, 
only to be partially redeemed by heavy presents to 
the tribe. And thus it happened that as each fell his 
nearest and dearest ran up and fiercely beat and 
kicked him to rouse him to new effort. 

The spirit and courage to break loose all had, but 
only one still owned store of strength sufficient for 
the awful task. 

After struggling until so weak they could no 
longer be made to rise, eight were bought off by 
presents, and their skewers cut loose by the medicine 
man. 

The ninth man, the husband, by the way, of the 

one squaw dancer, after repeatedly falling in a faint, 

at last roused himself, cast aside his staff, staggered 

up to the pole, and, commanding every last remaining 

[249] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

grain of strength, bounded violently away from the 
pole, bounded with such force that his body swung 
on the rope free of the ground so hard that when he 
again hit the ground he was free of the rope ! A 
plucky and a strong one indeed was he — tied to the 
pole nearly an hour and a half ! 

And this man's squaw was well worthy of her lord, 
for, while not herself tied up, she submitted herself 
to sacrificial torture, in the severe scarifying of her 
arms, undertaken by none of her fellow dancers ! 

Thus was the vow of this brave pair honestly and 
dearly paid. 

So sacrificed the Sioux to the sun, as the chief of 
their many deities. 

While we know little enough of the details of their 
cult, we know much to their credit, socially and mor- 
ally, they certainly owed to it : we know it for a re- 
ligion broad enough in scope, sound enough in ethics, 
and strong enough in its hold upon its adherents to 
have made them a " good " people as we first found 
them ; a kindly, loving people among their own kith 
and kin ; a charitable people, always free givers to the 
poor, and generous helpers of any in distress, whether 
of their own or of hostile blood ; a truthful people 
that hated a forked tongue, to whom it was harder to 
lie than for the average " Christian " to tell the truth ; 
[250] 



THE LAST GREAT SUN DANCE 

a race of virtuous, honest wives and devoted mothers ; 
a race of iron-hearted men that condemned to a Hfe 
at the most menial tasks any guilty of poltroonery ; 
a race that never stole, except as they took spoils, 
won in the manly game of war at hazard of their 
lives ; a race lofty in its thought and eloquent in its 
expression ; a race of stoics that bore most terrible 
pain with all the patient fortitude ever shown under 
torture by the most heroic Christian martyr ; happy 
fatalists who went chanting to their death, placid in 
the certainty of their conviction of enjoying immor- 
tality in the Happy Hunting Grounds of the Great 
Spirit. 

Surely, in the light of such results, a religion 
worth owning and a deity worth praying to, let 
whomsoever may sneer at it as pagan i 

And why not the sun as deity? Why not the one 
supreme potentiality of all nature, that, obviously 
alike to savage and to sage, holds the means to make 
or mar our destinies? Why not the sun, the very key- 
stone to the great cosmic work of the Creator? 

Who that has revelled and bathed in the sun's warm 
rays and shivered under cloud, that has observed 
earth's generous largess when kissed by sunlight and 
her chill poverty when the sun long denies himself, 
can offensively cry pagan of a sun worshipper? 
[251] 



CHAPTER TEN 
END OF THE TRAIL (COWBOY LOGIC AND FROLIC) 

WE were jogging along in the saddle 
across the divide between the Rawhide 
and the Niobrara, Concho Curly and 
I, en route from Cheyenne to the ranch to begin 
the spring calf round-up. 

Travelhng the lower trail, we had slept out on 
our saddle-blankets the night before, beside tlic sod- 
den wreck of a fire in a little cottonwood grove on 
Rawhide. 

While the night there passed was wretched and 
comfortless to the last degree, for even our slickers 
were an insufficient protection against the torrents 
of warm rain that fell upon us hour after hour, the 
curtain of gray morning mists that hedged us round 
about was scarce lifted at bidding of the new day's 
sun, before eyes, ears, and nostrils told us Nature 
had wrought one of her great miracles while we slept. 

All seed life, somnolent so long in whatever earthly 
cells the winds and rains had assisted to entomb it, 
[ 252 ] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

had awakened and arisen into a living force ; tree 
vitality, long hibernating invisible, even in sorely 
wounded, lightning-riven, gray cottonwood torsos, 
was asserting itself; voices long still, absent God 
alone knows where, were gladly hailing the return 
of the spring. 

We had lain down in a dull gray dead world, to 
awaken in a world pulsing with the life and bright 
with the colour of sprouting seed and revivifying 
sap. 

Our eyes had closed on tree trunks gaunt and 
pale, a veritable spectral wood ; on wide stretches of 
buffalo grass, withered yellow and prone upon the 
ground, the funereal aspect of the land heightened 
by the grim outlines of two Sioux warriors lashed 
on pole platforms for their last resting-place in 
the branches above our heads, fragments of a faded 
red blanket pendent and flapping in the wind be- 
neath one body, a blue blanket beneath the other, 
grisly neighbours who appeared to approach or re- 
cede as our fire alternately blazed and flickered — 
both plainly warriors, for beneath each lay the whit- 
ening bones of his favourite war pony, killed by his 
tribesmen to provide him a mount in the Spirit 
Land. 

It was a voiceless, soundless night before the storm 
[253] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

came, bar the soughing of the wind, the weary 
creaking of bare branches, the feeble murmur of the 
brook (drunk almost dry by the thirsty land), and 
the flap-flap of our neighbours' last raiment. 

Our eyes opened upon trees crowned with the pale 
green glory of bursting buds, upon valley and hill 
slopes verdant as the richest meadow ; our ears were 
greeted with the sweet voices of birds chanting a 
welcome to the spring, and the rollicking song of 
a brimful stream, merry over the largess it now bore 
for man and beast and bird and plant, while the 
sweet, humid scents of animate, palpitant nature had 
driven from our nostrils the dry, horrid odours of 
the dead. 

So comes the spring on the plains — in a single 
night ! 

Concho Curly was a raw, unlettered, freckled 
product of a Texas pioneer's cabin isolated in 
a nook of the west slope of the hills about the 
licad of the Concho River, near where they pitch 
down to the waterless, arid reaches of the staked 
plains. 

But the miracle of the spring, appealing to the 
universal love of the mysterious, had set even Curly's 
untrained brain questioning and philosophising. 

After riding an hour or more silent, his chin 
[254] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

buried in the loose folds of his neckerchief, Curly 
sighed deeply and then observed: 

" 01' man, hit shore 'pears to me OF Mahster 
hain't never strained Hisself none serious tryin' to 
divide up even the good things o' this yere world 
o' ourn. Looks like He never tried none, an' ef He 
did, He's shore made a pow'ful pore job!" 

" Why, Curly," I asked, " what makes you think 
so?" 

" Some fellers has so dod-blamed much an' some 
so dod-bumed little," he replied. " Why, back whar 
you-all comes from, thar's oodles o' grass an' fodder 
an' water the hull year, ain't they, while out here 
frequent hit's so fur from grass to water th' critters 
goes hungry to drink an' dry to graze — don't they ? " 

" Quite true. Curly," I admitted. 

" Wall, back thar, then, 'most every feller must 
be rich, an' have buggies an' ambulances plenty, an' 
a big gallery round his jacal, an' nothin' to do but 
set on her all day studdyin' what new bunch o' 
prittys he'll buy for his woman, an' wettin' his 
whistle frequent with rot-gut to he'p his thinker 
*^lect new kinds o' throat-ticklin' grub to feed his 
face an' new kinds o' humany quilts an' goose-hair 
pillers to git to lay on, while out here a hull passle 
o' fellers is so dod-burned pore they don't even own 
[255] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

a name, an' hull families lives 'n' dies 'thout ever 
gittin' to set in a buggy or to eat anythin' but co'n 
pone an' sow belly, 'thout no fixin's or dulces to 
chase them, like th' puddin's an' ice cream you gits 
to town ef you've got th' spondulix an' are willin' 
to blow yourse'f reckless. 

" On th' level, you cain't make me believe 01' 
Mahster had anythin' to do with th' makin' o' these 
yere parts out yere — ef He had, He'd a shore give 
us fellers a squarer deal; 'pears to me like when 
His job was nigh done an' he was sorta tired an' 
restin', the boys musta got loose an' throwed this 
part o' th' country together, kinda careless-like, 
outen th' leavin's." 

And on and on he monologued, plucking an occa- 
sional " yes " or " no " from me, till apparently a 
new line of reflection diverted him and he fell silent 
to study where it might lead him. 

Presently, when I was lolling comfortably in the 
saddle, half dozing, he nudged me in the ribs with 
the butt of his quirt and remarked: 

" Say, ol' man ! I reckon I nmsta been sleep-walk- 
in' an' eatin' loco weed, for I been arguin' plumb 
wrong. 

" Come to think o' hit, while wc-all that's pore 
has to work outrageous to make a skimp of a livin', 
[256] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

you-all that's rich has to work a scandalous sight 
harder to git to keep what you got. 

" An' then there's ice ! Jest think o' ice ! Th' rich 
has her in th' summer, but d — n me ef th' pore don't 
get her in th' winter, good an' plenty — makin' hit 
look like th' good things o' this world is whacked 
up mighty nigh even, after all, an' that we-all hain't 
got no roar comin' to us." 

Thus happily settled his recent worries, Curly 
himself dropped off into a contented doze, and left 
me to resume mine. 

The season opening promised to be an unusually 
busy one. It was obvious we were nearing the crest 
of a three-years' boom. Wild range cattle were sell- 
ing at higher prices than ever before or since. The 
Chicago beef-market was correspondingly strong. 
But there were signs of a reaction that made me 
anxious to gather and ship my fat beeves soon as 
possible, before the tide turned. 

Every winter two thirds of my herd drifted be- 
fore the bitter blizzards southeast into the sand 
hills lying between the sink of Snake Creek and the 
head of the Blue, a splendid winter range where snow 
never lay long, and out of which cattle came in the 
spring in unusually good condition. 

Thus, at the end of the spring round-up, I was 
[257] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

able to cut fifteen hundred beef steers that, after 
being grazed under close herd a few weeks on the 
better-cured, stronger feed on the divide between the 
Niobrara and Snake Creek, were fit for market, and 
with them we arrived at our shipping point — Ogal- 
lala— July 2, 1882. 

Leaving the outfit camped, luckily, on a bench 
twenty feet above the main valley of the Platte, I 
rode two miles into town to make shipping arrange- 
ments. 

A wonderful sight was the Platte Valley about 
Ogallala in those days, for it was the northern 
terminus of the great Texas trail of the late 
'70s and early '80s, where trail-drivers brought 
their herds to sell and northern ranchmen came to 
bargain. 

That day, far as the eye could see up, down, and 
across the broad, level valley were cattle by the thou- 
sand — thirty or forty thousand at least — a dozen or 
more separate outfits, grazing in loose, open order 
so near each other that, at a distance, the valley 
appeared carpeted with a vast Persian rug of in- 
tricate design and infinite variety of colours. 

Approached nearer, where individual riders and 
cattle began to take form, it was a topsy-turvy 
scene I looked down upon. 

[258] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

The day was unusually, tremendously hot — prob- 
ably 112° in the shade — so hot the shimmering heat- 
waves developed a mirage that turned town, herds, 
and riders upside down — all sprung in an instant 
to gigantic height, the squat frame houses tall as 
modern skyscrapers, cattle and riders big as ele- 
phants, while here and there deep blue lakes lay 
placidly over broad expanses that a few moments 
before were a solid field of variegated, brilliant 
colours. 

Arrived at the Spofford House, the one hotel of 
the town, I found a familiar bunch of famous Texas 
cattle kings — Seth Mayberry, Shanghai Pierce, 
Dillon Fant, Jim Ellison, John Lytle, Dave Hun- 
ter, Jess Presnall, etc. — each with a string of long 
horns for sale. 

The one store and the score of saloons, dance- 
halls, and gambling joints that lined up south of 
the railway track and formed the only street Ogal- 
lala could boast, were packed with wild and woolly, 
long-haired and bearded, rent and dusty, lusting and 
thirsty, red-sashed brush-splitters in from the trail 
outfits for a frolic. 

And every now and then a chorus of wild, shrill 
yells and a fusillade of shots rent the air that would 
make a tenderfoot think a battle-royal was on. 
[259] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

But there was nothing serious doing, then ; it was 
only cowboy froHc. 

The afternoon's fierce heat proved a weather 
breeder, as some had predicted. 

Shortly after supper, but long before sundown, a 
dense black cloud suddenly rose in the north, swept 
swiftly above and around us till it filled the whole 
zenith — an ominous, low-hanging pall that brought 
upon us in a few minutes the utter darkness of a 
starless night. 

Quite as suddenly as the coming of the cloud, the 
temperature fell 40° or 50°, and drove us into the 
hotel. 

And we were little more than sheltered behind 
closed doors before torrents of rain descended, borne 
on gusts of hurricane force that blew open the north 
door of the dining-room, picked up a great pin-pool 
board standing across a biscuit-shooting opening in 
the partition, swept it across the breadth of the 
office, narrowly missing Mayberry and Fant, and 
dashed it to splinters against the opposite wall. 

Ten minutes later the violence of rain and down- 
pour slackened, almost stopped. 

Shanghai went to the door and looked out, shiv- 
ered, and shut it with the remark: 

" By cripcs, fellers ! 'pears like 01' Mahster plumb 
[260] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

emptied His tanks that clatter ; the hull flat's under 
water." 

" Maybe so He's stackin' us up agin' a swimmin' 
match," was Fant's cheerful comment. 

And within another ten minutes it certainly 
seemed Fant had called the turn. 

A tremendous crash of thunder came, with light- 
ning flashes that illumined the room till our oil 
lamps looked like fireflies, followed by another tor- 
nado-driven downpour it seemed hopeless to expect 
the house could survive. 

And while our ears were still stunned by its first 
roar, suddenly there came flood waters pouring in 
over door-sills and through floor cracks, rising at a 
rate that instantly drove us all to refuge on the 
second floor of the hotel. 

We were certainly in the track, if not the centre, 
of a waterspout ! 

But barely were we upstairs before the aerial 
flood-gates closed, till no more than an ordinary 
heavy soaking rain was falling, and the wind slack- 
ened sufficiently to permit us to climb out on the 
roof of the porch and take stock of the situation. 

Our case looked grave enough — grave past hope 
of escape, or even help. 

" Fellers," quietly remarked Shanghai, " here's a 
[261] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

game where passin' don't go — leastwise till it's cash 
in an' pass out o' existence. Here's where I'd sell 
my chances o' seein' to-morrow's sun at a dollar a 
head, an' agree not to tally more'n about five head. 
I've been up agin' Yankee charges, where the air 
was full of lead and the cold steel 'peared to hide 
all the rest of the scenery ; I've laid in a buffalo 
wallow two days and nights surrounded by Co- 
manches, and been bush-whacked by Kiowas on the 
Palo Pinto, but never till now has Shanghai been 
up agin' a game he couldn't figure out a way to 
beat." 

And so, in truth, it looked. 

The whole world was afloat, a raging, tossing 
flood — our world, at least. 

To us a universal flood could mean no more. 

Far as the eye could see rolled waters. 

And the waters were rising all the time, ever 
rising, higher and higher ; not creeping, but rising, 
leaping up the pillars of the porch ! 

It seemed only a matter of moments before the 
hotel must collapse, or be swept from its founda- 
tions. 

Already the flood beneath us was dotted thick 
with drifting flotsam — wrecks of houses, fences, 
stables, sidewalks. 

[262] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

Men, women, and children were afloat upon the 
wreckage, drifting they knew not where, safe they 
knew not how long, shrieking for aid no one could 
lend. 

Dumb beasts and fowls drifted by us, their in- 
articulate terror cries rising shrill above the piping 
of the wind — cattle bawling, pigs squealing, dogs 
howling, horses neighing, chickens clucking madly, 
and even the ducks and geese quacking notes of 
alarm. 

It seemed the end of the world, no less — at least, 
of our little corner of it. 

However the old Spofford House held to her 
foundations was a mystery, unless she stood without 
the line of the strongest current. 

But hold she stoutly did until, perhaps fifteen 
minutes after we were driven upstairs, word was 
passed out to us by watchers within upon the 
staircase that the rise had stopped — stopped just 
about half-way between floor and ceiling of the first 
story. 

And right then, just as we were catching our 
breath to interchange congratulations, a new terror 
menaced us — a terror even more appalling than the 
I'emorseless flood that still held us in its grip. 

An inky-black pall of cloud still shut out the stars 
[263] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

and shrouded all the earth, but a pall so riven and 
torn by constantly recurring flashes of sheet-light- 
ning that our entire field of view was lit almost as 
bright as by a midday sun. 

Suddenly, off in the south, over the divide between 
the Platte and the Republican, an ominous shape 
uprose like magic from below the horizon — a bal- 
loon-shaped cloud of an ashen-gray that, from re- 
flection of the lightning or other cause, had a sort 
of phosphorescent glow that outlined its form 
against the inky background and made plain to our 
eyes, as the hand held before one's face, that we con- 
fronted an approaching cyclone. 

Nearing us it certainly was at terrific speed, for 
it grew and grew as we looked till its broad dome 
stood half up to the zenith, while its narrow tail 
was lashing viciously about near and often appar- 
ently upon the earth. 

On it came, head-on for us, for a space of per- 
haps four minutes — until, I am sure, any on- 
looker who had a prayer loose about him was not 
idle. 

And perhaps (who knows?) one or another such 
appeal prevailed, for just as it seemed no earthly 
power could save us, off eastward it switched and 
sped swiftly out of our sight. 
[264] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

It was near midnight before the waters began 
to fall, and morning before the house was free of 
them. 

And when about eight o'clock horses were brought 
us, we had to wade and swim them about a quarter 
of a mile to reach the dry uplands. 

From the roof of the hotel we could see that even 
the trail herds were badly scattered and commin- 
gled, and it was the general opinion my herd of un- 
trail-broke wild beef steers were probably running 
yet, somewhere. 

But when I got out to the benchland where I had 
left them, there they were, not a single one missing. 
This to my infinite surprise, for usually an ordinary 
thunderstorm will drift beef herds more or less, if 
not actually stampede them. 

The reason was quickly explained: the storm had 
descended upon them so suddenly and with such ex- 
traordinary violence that they were stunned into 
immobility. 

Apparently they had been directly beneath the 
very centre of the waterspout, for the boys told 
me the rain fell in such solid sheets that they 
nearly smothered, drowned while mounted and sit- 
ting their saddles about the trembling, bellowing 
herd; came do\vn in such torrents they had to hold 
[265] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

their hands in shape of an inverted cup above nose 
and mouth to get their breath! 

Miles of the U. P. track were destroyed that laid 
us up for three days, awaiting repairs. 

The first two days the little village was quiet, 
trail men out bunching and separating their herds, 
townsmen taking stock of their losses. 

But the third day hell popped good and plenty. 

Tempers were so fiery and feelings so tindery that 
it seemed the recent violence of the very elements 
themselves had got into men's veins and made them 
bent to destroy and to kill. 

All day long street and saloon swarmed with 
shouting, quarrelling, shooting punchers, owners and 
peace officers were alike powerless to control. 

About noon the town marshal and several depu- 
ties made a bold try to quell the turmoil — and then 
had to mount and ride for their lives, leaving two of 
Hunter & Evans's men dead in front of The Cow- 
boys' Rest, and a string of wounded along the street. 

This incident stilled the worst of the tumult for 
two or three hours, for many took up pursuit of the 
marshal, while the rest were for a time content to 
quietly talk over the virtues of the departed in the 
intervals between quadrille-sets — for, of course, the 
dancing went on uninterrupted. 
1^66] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

Toward evening, notwithstanding the orgy had 
again resumed a fast and furious pace, Fant, May- 
berry, and myself were tempted to join the crowd 
in The Cowboys' Rest, tempted by glimpses of a 
scene caught from our perch on a corner of the 
depot platform opposite. 

" That is blamed funny ! " remarked Mayberry. 
" Come along over and let's see her good. We're 
no more liable to get leaded there than anywhere 
else." 

So over we went. 

" The Rest " belied its name sadly, for rest was 
about the only thing Jim Tucker was not prepared 
to furnish his wild and woolly patrons. 

Who entered there left coin behind — and was lucky 
if he left no more. 

Stepped within the door, a rude pine " bar " on 
the right invited the thirsty ; on the left, noisy 
" tin horns," whirring wheels, clicking faro " cases," 
and ratthng chips lured the gamblers ; while away 
to the rear of the room stretched a hundred feet 
or more of dance-hall, on each of whose rough 
benches sat enthroned a temptress — hard of eye, 
deep-lined of face, decked with cheap gauds, sad 
wrecks of the sea of vice here lurching and tossing 
for a time. 

[ 267 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

As we entered, Mayberry's foreman met us and 
whispered to his boss : 

" You-all better stan' back a little, colonel, out o' 
line o' th' door. 01' one-eyed John Graham, o' th' 
Hunter outfit, settin' thar in th' corner's layin' fo' 
th' sheriff — allows 'twas him sot up th' marshal to 
shell us up this mo'nin' — an' ol' John's shore pizen 
when he starts." 

So back we moved to the rear end of the bar. 

The room was packed: a solid line of men and 
women before the bar, every table the centre of a 
crowding group of players, the dance-hall floor and 
benches jam-full of a roystering, noisy throng. 

At the moment all were happy and peace reigned. 

But there was one obvious source of discord — 
there were " not enough gals to go round " ; not 
enough, indeed, if those present had been multiplied 
by ten, a situation certain to stir jealousies and 
strife among a lot of wild nomads for whom this 
was the first chance in four months to gaze into 
a woman's eyes. 

To be sure, one resourceful and unselfish puncher 
— a foreman of one of the trail outfits — was doing 
his best to relieve the prevailing deficiency in femi- 
nine dancers, and it was a distant glimpse of his 
efforts that had brought us over. 
[268] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

Bearing, if not boasting, the proud old Dutch 
name of Jake De Puyster, this rolUcking six-foot- 
two blond giant had heard Buck Groner growl: 

" Hain't had airy show for a dance yet. Nairy 
heifer's throwed her eye my way 'fore she's been 
roped and tied in about a second. Reckon it's shoot 
for one or pull my freight for camp, and I ain't 

sleepy none." 

" You stake you'self out, son, a few minutes, and 
I'll git you a she-pardner you'll be glad of a chance 
to dance with and buy prittys for," reassured Jake, 
and then disappeared. 

Ten minutes later he returned, bringing Buck a 
partner that stopped drinking, dance, and play— 
the most remarkably clad figure that ever entered 
even a frontier dance-hall. 

Still wearing his usual costume — wide chaps, 
spurred heels, and belt— having removed nothing 
but his tall-crowned Mexican sombrero, Jake had 
mavericked three certain articles of feminine apparel 
and contrived to get himself into them. 

Cocked jauntily over his right eye he wore a 
bright red toque crowned with a faded wreath of 
pale blue flowers, from which a bedraggled green 
feather drooped wearily over his left ear; about his 
waist wrinkled a broad pink sash, tied in a great 
[269] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

double bow-knot set squarely in front, while fastened 
also about his waist, pendent no more than mid- 
way of his long thighs, hung a garment white of 
colour, filmy of fabric, bifurcated of form, richly 
ruffled of extremity — so habited came Jake, and, 
with a broad grin lurking within the mazes of his 
great bushy beard and monstrous moustache, sidled 
mincing to his mate and shyly murmured a hint he 
might have the privilege of the next quadrille. 

At first Buck was furious, growled, and swore to 
kill Jake for the insult, until, infected by the gales 
of laughter that swept the room, he awkwardly of- 
fered his arm and led his weird partner to an un- 
filled set. 

And a sorry hour was this to the other ladies; 
for, while there were better dancers and prettier, 
that first quadrille made " Miss De Puyster " the 
belle of the ball for the rest of the day and night, 
and not a few serious affrays over disputes for an 
early chance of a " round " or " square " with her 
were narrowly avoided. 

Just as we reached the rear end of the bar, the 
fiddles stopped their cruel liberties with the beauti- 
ful measures of " Sohre las Olas,"" and Buck led his 
panting partner up to our group and courteously 
introduced us thus : 

[270] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

" Miss De Puyster, here's two mighty slick ol' 
long-horn mossbacks you wants to be pow'ful shy 
of, for they'd maverick off their own daddy, an' a 
little short-horn Yankee orfun I wants to ax you 
to adopt an' try to make a good mother to. Fellers, 
this yere's Miss De Puyster; she ain't much for 
pritty, but she's hell for active on th' floor — so dod- 
burned active I couldn't tell whether she was waltzin' 
or tryin' to throw me side-holts." 

But before we had time to properly make our ac- 
knowledgments, a new figure in the dance was called 
— a figure which, though familiar enough in Ogal- 
lala dance-halls, distracted and held the attention of 
all present for a few minutes. 

Later we learned that, early in the day, a local 
celebrity — Bill Thompson by name, a tin horn by 
trade, and a desperado by pretence — had proffered 
some insult to Big Alice, the leading lady of the 
house, for which Jim Tucker had " called him down 
good and plenty," but under such circumstances 
that to resent it then would have been to court a 
fairer fight than Bill's kind ever willingly took on. 

But, remembering he was brother to Ben Thomp- 
son, the then most celebrated man-killer in the State 
of Texas (who himself was to fall to King Fisher's 
pistol in Jack Harris's San Antonio variety theatre 
[271] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

a few years later), brooding Tucker's abuse of him, 
figuring what Ben would do in like circumstances, 
illumining his view of the situation by frequent re- 
sorts to red eye, Bill by evening had rowled him- 
self ready for action. 

So it happened that at the very moment Buck 
finished our introduction to " Miss De Puyster," Bill 
suddenly stepped within the door of the saloon and 
took a quick snapshot at Tucker, who was directly 
across the bar from us and in the act of passing 
Fant a glass of whisky with his left hand. 

The ball cut off three of Tucker's fingers and the 
tip of the fourth, and, the bar being narrow, spat- 
tered us with his blood. 

Tucker fell, momentarily, from the shock. 

Supposing from Tucker's quick drop he had made 
an instant kill, Bill stuck his pistol in his waist- 
band and started leisurely out of the door and down 
the street. 

But no sooner was he out of the house than Jim 
sprang up, seized a sawed-off ten-gauge shotgun, 
ran to the door, levelled the gun across the stump 
of his maimed left hand, and emptied into Bill's 
back, at about six paces, a trifle more No. 4 duck- 
shot than his system could assimilate. 

Perhaps altogether ten minutes were wasted on 
[272] 



END OF THE TRAIL 

this incident and the time taken to tourniquet and 
tie up Jim's wound and to pack Bill inside and 
stow him in a corner behind the faro lookout's chair, 
and then Jim's understudy called, " Pardners fo' th' 
next dance ! " the fiddlers bravely tackled but soon 
got hopelessly beyond their depth in " The Blue 
Danube," and dancing and frolic were resumed, with 
" Miss De Puyster " still the belle of the ball. 



[273] 



CHAPTER ELEVEN 
CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP'RA 

EARLY in July, 1882, I made my first beef 
shipment of that season, from Ogallala to 
Chicago. I sent Concho Curly ahead in 
charge of the first train-load, and myself followed 
with the second. While to me uneventful, for Curly 
the trip was big with interest. 

Bred and reared in Menard County, on a little 
tributary of the Concho River that long stood the 
outermost line of settlement in central west Texas, 
Curly was about as raw a product as the wildest 
mustang ranging his native hills. Seldom far off his 
home range before the preceding year's trail drive, 
never in a larger city than the then small town of 
Fort Worth, for Curly Chicago was nothing short 
of a wilderness of wonders. His two days' stay there 
left him awed and puzzled. 

It was the second morning of our return journey 
before I could get much out of him. Before that he 
had sat silent, in a brown study, answering only in 
monosyllables anything I said to him. 
[ 27 J- ] 



CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP'RA 

At length, however, another friendly inquiry de- 
veloped what he was worrying about. 

" Come, come, Curly ! " I said, " tell us what you 
saw. Had a good time, didn't you ? " 

" Wall, I should remark, that while I had lots of 
times, I shorely didn't stack up agin no hell-roarin' 
big bunch o' real good ones. Them short-horns is 
junin' round so thick back thar a stray long-horn 
hain't no sorta show to git to know straight up 
from sideways 'fore he gits plumb lost in them deep 
canons whar all th' sign is tramped out an' thar's 
no trees to blaze for back-tracking yourself. 

" What they-all gits to live on is the mysteriousest 
mystery to me ; don't raise or grow nothin' ; got no 
grass, or cows to graze on her ef they had her. 
'Course some of them's got spondulix their daddies 
left them, an' can buy ; th' rest — wall, mebbe so th' 
rest is jest nachally cannibiles, an' eats up each 
other." 

And how nearly Curly was right about the " can- 
nibiles " — at least, metaphorically — he doubtless 
never learned. 

" But, Curly," I asked, " didn't you have any 
fun? Must have hit up the theatres a few, didn't 



you 



? " 



" Wall, I should say I shore did," he replied. " I 
[275] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

shore went to a the-a-tre, but she didn't get my 
funny-bone busy none. 

" Say, ol' man, that thar Chicago ain't no place 
for a long-horn that was raised to mind his mammy 
an' 'tend his kid sisters. Way th' men folks treats 
th' women folks keeps a rawhide that riled he's liable 
to make a new war-play about every five minutes. 
Down on th' Llano th' fellers is shootin' hell out 
of each other most of th' time they're not busy 
dodgin' th' sherriff, but th' wildest an' woolliest an* 
th' meanest don't never put it over no good woman, 
even when she's hitched to a feller whose scalp he's 
huntin'. 

" But back thar in Chicago a she-scalp ain't no 
safer 'n a he-one, an' I reckon so less. 'Feared so 
to me, anyway." 

" Why, Curly," I asked, " how do you make that 
out?" 

" Wall, you see it's thisaway. When you turned 
me loose down to th' stockyards, I axed th' commis- 
sion man what was th' ring-tailcdest lally-coolcr of 
a hotel in town, an' he tells me she's th' Palmer 
House. 

" Then I ropes a kid an' hobbles him with four 
bits long enough to run me through th' milling herd 
of short-horns as fer as th' Palmer. 
[276] 



CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP'RA 

" On th' way I stops to a store an' buys a new 
hat, an' a pair o' high-heel boots, an' a new suit, 
shirt, an' red handkerchief, an' a little ol' humany 
war sack with a handle on her, an' inter her I puts 
my belt an' spurs. 

" Then, when I gets fixed up jest like them city 
folks, I pikes along to th' Palmer, an' in I goes. 

" An' she was a shore lally-cooler all right ! More 
prittys about th' fixin' up o' that house than I'd 
allowed anything but a woman could pack. 

" Wall, when I got in I axed for Mr. Palmer, 
an' a little feller in sorta soldier-brass-button-clothes 
runs me up to a little close pen with a fence round 
her slicker than airy bar in Fort Worth — all glass 
an' shiny wood an' dandy stones. In that thar pen 
was a quick-talkin', smart-aleck feller, with a di'- 
mond big as a engin' head-light staked out in th' 
middle of his bald-faced shirt. 

" That feller shore rubbed my hair th' wrong 
way th' minute he shot his mouth off, with: 

" ' Wall, what kin I do for you, young feller.? ' 

" ' You cain't do airy d n thing for me, Mr. 

Man,' I ups an' tells him. ' Hain't got nairy busi- 
ness with pikers like you-all. I don't git to Chicago 
often, but when I do I plays with nothin' but blue 
chips, an' bets th' limit every whirl.' 
[277] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

"'Wall, what do you want, anyway?' he jerks 
out. 

" ' Want to see Mr. Palmer ; got some p'rticular 
business with him,' says I. 

" ' Sorry, sir,' says he, ' Mr. Palmer ain't around 
this time of day. Is your business with him private.'* ' 

" ' I reckon she are private,' says I ; ' want to 
see him an' find out ef I kin git to stay all night 
in this yere ^otel of his'n.' 

" An' I reckon about that time that thar smart 
aleck must o' thought of somethin' powerful funny 
that'd happened lately, for right thar he broke out 
laughin' fit to kill his fool self — jest nachally laughed 
till he liked to died. 

" When finally he comes to, he up an' says : 

" ' Why, I sometimes attend to business like that 
for Mr. Palmer; guess I can fix you. Here, write 
your name down there.' 

" An' he whirls round in front of me a hell of 
a big book that 'peared to have a lot other fellers' 
names in. She shore looked s'spicious to me, an' I 
says: 

" ' Now see here, Mr. Man, my name don't draw 
no big lot of money, but she shorely don't get 
fastened to any docLments I don't sahc.^ 

" Then that dod-bunied idiot thought o' somethin' 
[278] 



CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP'RA 

else so dod-blamed funny he lites in laughin' agin 
till he nigh busts. 

" When he gits out o' his system all the laugh 
she cain't hold easy, he tells me th' big book is jest 
nothin' but a tally they use to count you in when 
you comes to stay to th' hotel an' to count you out 
when you goes. 

" That didn't look onreasonable none to me, so I 
says: 

" ' Son, she goes.' 

" An' when he hands me a writin' tool, not no- 
ticin' she wa'n't a pencil, I sticks her in my mouth 
to git her ready to write good, an' gits my dod- 
burned mouth so full of ink I reckon 'tain't all out 
yet ; an' while I was writin' in th' book, * Stonewall 
Jackson Kip, Deadman Ranch, Nebraska,' Mr. Man 
he slips off behind a big safe and empties out a few 
more laughs he couldn't git to hold longer. 

" An' does you know, ol' man, this mornin' I been 
gittin' a sort of a s'spicion that Palmer piker was 
laughin' at me inkin' my mouth, maybe; blamed 
lucky I didn't see it then, or I'd shore leaded him 
a few. 

*' Wall, when Mr. Man had got done ^a;aminin' 
my turkey tracks in the book, he gits a key an' 
comes back, hits a bell, an' hollers, ' Front ! ' Then, 
[279] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

when one o' them little soldier-button fellers comes 
runnin', an' th' piker passes him th' key an' sings 
out, 'Gentleman to No. 1492!' th' kid he makes a 
dive for my war sack. But you bet your alee I grabs 
him pronto, an' says : 

" ' See here, son, they ain't more'n about two mil- 
lion worth o' valuables in that thar war sack, so I 
wouldn't be broke none ef you ducked with her; but 
I reckon Stonewall's strong enough to pack his'n 
without th' help of no sawed-off like you-all.' 

" Then Mr. Kid he up an' chases me over to a 
railroad car that's built on tracks runnin' straight 
up in th' air plumb to th' top of th' house, an' into 
lier we gits — all free, you sabe; didn't have to buy 
no ticket. 

" Wall, sir, when th' feller ridin' her socked in 
th' spurs, that thar car humped herself once or twice 
an' then hit a gait that would make a U. P. ^j;press 
look like she was standin' still, an' in less time than 
Nebo takes to draw a gun, thar we was at th' top 
floor, about a mile higher, I reckon, than folks was 
ever meant to live. 

" An' say ! By cripes ! when I come to look out 

o' th' winder in my room, I tliought I'd have to 

stake myself to th' bed to be safe. Lookin' out was 

jest like lookin' down from th' top o' Laramie Peak 

[£80] 



CONCHO CURLY AT THE OPRA 

on th' spread of th' main range — little ol' peaks an' 
deep canons everywhere, with signal-fires throwin' 
up smoke columns from every peak, like Injuns sig- 
nalin' news. She shore looked a rough country to 
try to make any short cuts across. 

" When I'd got washed up some, I sticks my gun 
in my waist-band an' goes out an' down to th' ground 
on that little ol' upstandin' railroad, an' axes one 
o' them soldier boys th' trail to the grub-pile. Pic 
grins some an' takes me into a room so dod-burncd 
big and crowded with folks I allowed 'bout every- 
body in town must be eatin' there. 

" Soon as I got sot down, here comes a coon an' 
hands me a printed sheet bigger'n th' Llano Weekly 
Clarion. An' when I told him I was much obliged, 
but I'd come to eat an' not to read, blamed ef that 
thar coon didn't think o' somethin' so funny he nigh 
split hisself. 'Pears like mos' everybody has a hell 
of a onusual lot of laugh in 'em back thar. 

" Wall, bein' dod-burned hungry, an' allowin' I'd 
have a bang-up feed, an' rememberin' you Yankees 
talkin' on th' round-up 'bout what slick eatin' lob- 
sters makes, I tells th' coon to bring me a dozen 
lobsters an' a cup of coffee. 

" ' Wha-what's dat you say, boss ? How many lob- 
sters does you want? ' says th' coon. 
[281 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" ' A plumb dozen, you black hash-slinger ! ' says 
I, ' an' hump yourself pronto, for my tape-worm's 
hollerin' for fodder.' 

" Off slides Mr. Coon, lookin' at me sorta scared- 
like outen th' corner o' his off eye, to the far end 
o' th' room. 

" Wall, thar I set for about twenty minutes, 
hopin' lobsters was bigger'n oysters an' wonderin' 
ef I'd ordered enough to fill up me an' th' worm, 
when, lookin' up, here come up th' room a p'rces- 
sion of twelve niggers, each nigger carry in' a plate 
about half th' size of a saddle-blanket, an' on each 
plate a hell of a big red critter, most all laigs an' 
claws, that looked like a overgrowed Gila monster 
with war-paint on. 

" An' when th' lead coon stops in front of me an' 
says, ' Here's your dozen lobsters, sir,' I jest nach- 
ally nigh fell dead right thar, knowin' Stonewall was 
up agin it harder'n ever before in his life. 

" Say ! I never wanted a cayuse so bad in my life ; 
ef I had one I'd shore have skipped — forked him 
an' split the scenery open gittin' away from them 
war-painted animiles — but thar I was afoot! 

" So I bunches up my nerve an' says : 

" ' Say, coon, I done expected a bunch of th' boys 
to feed with me, but they hain't showed up. Me an' 
[282] 



CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP'RA 

th' worm will tackle a pair of them red jaspers, an' 
you fellers put the other ten where they cain't git 
away till th' boys comes.' 

" Then, not lettin' on to th' city chaps settin' an' 
grinnin' all round me that I wa'n't raised in th' 
same lot with lobsters, I takes my knife an' fork an' 
lites in to go to eatin', when I'll just be eternally 

d d if I didn't nigh go crazy to find them critturs 

was jest nachally all hoofs an' horns — nairy a place 
on 'em from end to end airy human's jaws could 
ever git to feed on. 

" An' I was about to jerk my gun an' shoot one 
apart to find out what his insides was like, when a 
feller settin' next showed me how to knock th' horns 
off an' git at th' meat proper. 

" Then me an' th' worm got busy good an' plenty, 
for th' meat was sweeter an' tenderer even than 
'possum. 

" Before we got done we shore chambered five of 
them animiles, an' when I paid th' bill an' sashayed 
out, it was with regrets I didn't have my war sack 
handy to pack off th' rest in. 

" Come evenin', I moseyed up to Mr. Man's pen 
an' axed him what was th' finest, highest-priced 
show in town, an' he told me she was to a the-a-tre 
called th' Op'ra. 

[283] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" So out I goes, an' ropes another kid an' gits 
him to steer me to her. 

" Arrived to th' the-a-tre, I prances up to th' 
ticket-waggon an' says, sorta reckless: 

" ' Pardner, jest hand me out a dociment for th' 
best place to set in you got; price is no object, it's 
th' best in your show for Stonewall,' privately al- 
lowin' to myself he might stick me up for as much 
as a dollar and a half. 

" At that he whispers to me, ' Twenty-five dol- 
lars,' jest as easy an' nat'rel, without turnin' a hair 
or appearin' any more {^arcited than Dune. Blackburn 
sticking up a stage-coach. 

" Twenty-fi-five plunks to git to set a liour or so 
to see a little ol' dod-burned fool play-actin' ! I'll 

just be if that wa'n't goin' some 

for Stonewall! Nigh three weeks' wages to git to 
' ante an' come in,' an' no tellin' what raises he'd 
have to stand after drawin' cards ! 

" However, allowin' I'd take a chance, I skinned 
off five fives from my little ol' bank-roll and passes 
'em over to Mr. Holdup, an' then he picks up an' 
shuffles a deck of little cards an' deals me off six 
of them. 

" Course I didn't know whatever his game was, 
makin' me a dead foul deal deliberate thataway, but 
[284] 



CONCHO CURLY AT THE OPRA 

knowin' she spelled trouble, I shoves one of th' cards 
back to him an' says: 

" ' Mr. Holdup, I don't know jest what liberties 
a gentleman is allowed to take with a deck back here, 
but out West whar I come from a feller caught in 
a pot with more'n five cards in his hand is generally 
buried th' next day, an' bein' as all his business in 
this world ain't quite settled yet, five cards will do 
your Uncle Stonewall.' 

" Couldn't make out anyway what he give me all 
them dociments for, unless one o' th' coons down 
to th' hotel had tipped him off my bunch of lob- 
ster-eaters was liable to drop in an' want to set 

with me. 

"Wall, then I dropped into th' stream o' folks 
flowin' in thro' th' door, all jammin' an' crowdin' 
like a bunch of wild steers, an' drifted inside. 

"Was you ever to that Op'ra The-fl-tre, ol' man? 
By cripes! but she was shore a honey-cooler for big! 
Honest, th' main corral would hold a full trail herd 
of three thousand head easy. 

"Wall, when I gits in, a young feller in more 
soldier-buttons axes to see my cards, an' then he 
steers me down thro' a narrow chute runnin' along 
one side of th' big corral to a Httle close-pen, 
with a low fence in front, right down to one end of 
[285] 



. REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

where they was play-actin', an' right atop of th' 
band. 

" Dead opposite was a high stack of little pens 
like mine, all full of folks — same, I reckon, above 
me — an' then back further three or four big pens, 
one above the other, over where you come in. 

" An' mebbe so them pens wa'n't packed none ! 
Don't believe thar was a empty corner anywhere 
except mine. Jest packed everywhere with men and 
women. 

" Th' men all looked alike, an' most of th' women 
Stonewall could a liked. 

" Th' men all had on black clothes, with bald- 
faced shirts to match their bald heads. 

" Th' women — wall, with th' little they had on 
they showed prittys a plent3^ Never see so many 
women or so much of 'cm before. 'Bout all of 'em 
had nothin' on their arms, an' their necks an' shoul- 
ders was plumb naked down to — down to where a 
kid gits his first meal. An' say, while they was nod- 
din' their heads an' gassin' with their fellers, it 
shore looked like a charging Sioux war-party, for 
they had more an' bigger feathers on their heads 
than even Red Cloud sports in his war bonnet, an' 
some of 'em, if you ax me, had faces about as tough 
as his'n. 

[286] 



CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP'RA 

" Women ! Say, thar was dark ones an' light ones, 
fat ones, thin ones, an' a plenty just round an' 
plump proper. Feller that couldn't get suited in that 
bunch needn't wear out no leather huntin' round 
outside. An' thar was a lot of them honey-coolers 
settin' close round me that kept lookin' up my way 
an' laughin' so sorta friendly like that it shore got 
to be real sociable. 

" Wall, sir, that band was playin' to beat any 
band you ever heard — horns an' fiddles an' drums ; 
horns that worked like a accordeon, pullin' in an' 
out ; ol' mossback he-fiddles that must a been more'n 
a hundred years old to git to grow so big; drums 
with bellies big an' round as your mammy's soap 
kettle; an' th' boss music-maker on a perch in th' 
middle of th' bunch, shakin' a little carajo pole to 
beat hell at any of th' outfit that wa'n't workin' to 
suit him. 

" Some of th' tunes was sweet an' slow enough so 
you could follow 'em afoot, but most of 'em was so 
dod-burned fast a feller'd need to be runnin' 'em 
on his top-cutting horse to git close enough to tell 
if they was real music or jest a hell of a big lot 
of noise. 

" But what s'rprised me most, ol' man, was to 
find that that thar the-a-tre was built up round one 
[287] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

of the roughest, rockiest, wildest pieces of country 
I ever saw outside th' Black Hills, it layin' in th' 
end whar they was play-actin'. It shore looked like 
a side canon up nigh th' head-waters of Rapid 
Creek, big boulders, an' pines, an' cliffs, an' a fall 
carryin' as much water as Deadman Creek. 

" An' weather ! Say, that little ol' the-fl-tre canon 
could put up a worse storm than you or me ever see 
in the Rockies. She was thundcrin' and lightenin' 
till I was dead sure we was all in for a water-spout, 
an' I reckon one must a come after I left. 

" I always thought the-a-tres was built to be funny 
in, but that one was jest nachally full o' hell's own 
grief as long as I got to stay in her. Nothin' doin' 
but sufferin' an' murderin' meanness. 

" Plumb alone, an' lost in th' caiion, I reckon, 
was a pore little gal, 'bout sixteen year old, leanin' 
on a stump close up to whar I was settin', an' sob- 
bin' fit to kill herself. She had 'bout next to nothin' 
on, an' was that ga'nted up an' lean 'peared like 
she was nigh starved to death. 

" An' thar she hung an' cried an' cried till it 
'peared to me some o' th' women folks ought to a 
gone to her; but they-all never noticed none, an' 
went right on gassin' with their fellers. 

" Finally, when she got so weak I thought she 
[288] 



CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP'RA 

was goin' to drop, out from behind a boulder slips 
a great big feller — all hair an' whiskers but his laigs, 
for he had on nothin' but a fur huntin'-shirt comin' 
half-way to his knees — an' in his hand he carries a 
long hilduque skelping-knife. 

" 'Fore I realised he meant trouble, he makes a 
jump an' grabs th' gal by th' shoulder an' shakes 
her scandalous, an' while he's shakin' he's sorta half- 
talkin' an' half-singin' to her in some kind of talk 
so near like Spanish I thought I could ketch some 
of it. 

" By cripes ! but that feller was hot good an' 
plenty over something ho claimed she'd did. 

" An' when, half-sobbin' an' singin', she 'peared 
to be tellin' him she hadn't, an' to go oif an' let 
her alone, he shook an' abused her more'n ever, till 
it struck me it was about time for neighbourin' men 
folks to hop in an' take a hand, for it was plumb 
plain she was a pore, sweet-faced, innercent little 
crittur that couldn't done no harm to a hummin' 
bird. 

" 'Bout that time, Mr. Hairyman he hops back a 
step or two, stands an' scowls an' grits his teeth at 
th' gal for a minute, an' then he raises his knife, 
sorta crouches for a jump, an' sings out, near as I 
could make it out: 

[289] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" * Maudite! Folle! Folle! Say fini! ' 

But before he could lite on her with his knife, I 
hopped out of my close-pen into the caiion, jammed 
my .45 in his ear, an' observes: 

" ' Mr. Hairyman, you're a d d liar, an' it's 

Stonewall Kip, of Concho, tellin' you ! 

" ' Little Maudy thar alnH full, an' she don't have 

to say airy d n thing she don't want to ; an' if 

you don't pull your freight sudden for th' brush, 
I'll shore shoot six different kinds of meanness outen 
your low-down murderin' carcass ! ' 

" Th' way his whiskers skipped over boulders 
makin' his getaway was some active, while th' pore 
little gal she jest drops off in a dead faint an' lays 
thar till some folks comes down the gulch an' car- 
ries her off. 

" Then I takes th' kink outen th' hammer of my 
gun, sticks her in my waist-band, an' climbs back 
an' gits my hat — havin' had more'n enough of dod- 
burned Op'ra The-a-tres. 

" An' while I was driftin' through the chute 
toward the main gate of th' big pen, to git out, 
there was th' dod-blamedcst cheerin', yellin', an' 
hand-clappin' you ever heard away from a stump- 
speakin', but whatever she was all about Stonewall 
didn't stop to ax." 

[290] 



CHAPTER TWELVE 
ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

FOR me the range situation in '82 was a most 
painful dilemma. 
I loved the Deadman Ranch, every nook 
and corner of it, from the tall white cliffs, pine-clad 
gorges, and bubbling springs along White River, to 
the billowy yellow plains ever rolling away into the 
south from the Niobrara; knew every one of our two 
hundred odd cow-ponies by name, and loved each for 
some virtue or was amused by some of his vices ; even 
hated to contemplate a parting with many an old 
outlaw bull or mossback long-horn steer who time and 
again had given us desperate tussles against any and 
every attempt at restraint of the liberty they loved 
and always fought for ; loved Sam and Tex, who 
steadfast through five years had stood true and de- 
voted to me, ever ready as could be one's own kin to 
hazard any peril or make any sacrifice; loved Charlie 
Nebo, my next neighbour down the Niobrara, from 
some subtle strain of prehistoric savagery that must 
[291] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

have outcropped in me to form so close a link of 
sj^mpathy between a youngster bred to all the con- 
ventions and one of the most desperate, relentless 
feud leaders of the Chisholm faction in the Lincoln 
County War, a man as ready to take a life as take 
a drink, a staunch friend to the few he cared for, 
but a most dangerous enemy — a man who, oddly, 
in his passions or his cups, would heed no man's 
restraining voice but mine. 

And then how I did love the old Home Ranch itself, 
the first real house ever in any way quite my own ; 
loved the rough, squat log walls that sheltered us ; 
loved the great chimney in my room whose crackling, 
flickering embers many a night had carried me to 
fancy's farthest field and shown me pictures and told 
me tales of happenings most wondrous strange ; loved 
the little, placid-faced pond of the beaver dam behind 
the ranch, that mirrored the surrounding hills in 
summer, and in winter furnished the ice that cooled 
July juleps and "twisters"; loved the plum and 
gooseberry thicket that hedged the pond round about 
and gave us the only fresh fruit wc had ; loved the 
deep-tliroated, solemn soughing of the pines, and the 
merry song of the brook that provided the only music 
we ever heard. 

But stay there much longer I knew we could not. 
[ 292] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

It had to be. The ranch must be sold, whatever the 
wrench to one's sentimental attachment. 

The year '82 was an eventful one to the ranch in- 
dustry of Wyoming and Nebraska, for it marked the 
dead line between good times and bad. 

For five years prices had been climbing, until 
mixed range cattle were in keen demand at thirty dol- 
lars a head, and fat grass steers were bringing fifty 
to sixty-five dollars in Chicago, and there had been 
no killing winter weather since the March blizzard 
of '78. 

Throughout the same period grass and water were 
plenty and free, and ranges uncrowded, ideal condi- 
tions for producing at low cost the heavy calf crops 
and fat beeves that spelled riches to ranch owners. 

But there were four dark clouds lowering about 
the rangeman's horizon that the cow-weatherwise 
were quick to recognise meant early injury and ulti- 
mate ruin to their business. 

First, the extraordinary profits the industry was 
enjoying, often as much as fifty to one hundred per 
cent per annum, were attracting capital in millions, 
from the East and from abroad; the annual trail 
drives into Wyoming from Texas, Utah, Oregon, and 
even Washington were doubling, increasing at a rate 
that made it sure the ranges would soon become so 
[293] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

badly overcrowded that profitable breeding and beef- 
fattening would be no longer possible. 

Second, emigrant farmers, locally known as 
" grangers," were coming in by hundreds from the 
South and East; the stage roads were dotted thick 
with the canvas-hooded, work-bull or horse-drawn 
waggons of the sturdy, restless pioneer folk to whose 
hatred of settlements and love of still nooks in the 
wilderness we owe so much for the rapid occupation 
and taming of the West, every waggon bristling with 
hoe and plough-handles and sturdy arms to ply them, 
a tide of home-seekers in our best watered valleys no 
sane ranchman dared hope he long could stem. For 
settlers meant fences, and once the valleys along our 
water courses were so occupied and enclosed, free 
range must end, and rangcmcn move on into the 
Northwest, or reduce the number of their herds and 
go on tame feed — themselves turn farmers. 

To be sure a few of the more stubborn tried to 
hang on for a time by the wholesale homesteading and 
pre-empting of miles of water front, but, since this 
could not be done on any large scale without gross 
infraction of the Federal Land Laws, few prospered, 
and many perished financially, in the attempt. 

Third, news was abroad of railway extensions 
north from the Union Pacific and the Chicago, Bur- 
[294] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

lington & Quincy, and west from the Missouri River 
that meant the coming of settlers by thousands, and 
the instant extinction, immediately upon their arrival 
in our midst, of the free range industry. 

And then, fourth, under the law of weather aver- 
ages, we were about due for a winter of still-falling, 
deep-lying, long-staying snow, such as, there, was 
sure to come at intervals, and when it came, wiped out 
whole herds. 

Indeed, the handwriting stood out so plain upon 
each of these four impending clouds it needed no 
grizzly old timer to read it — as evidenced at a dinner 
that season given by the American members of the 
Cheyenne Club to their English fellow-members. 

Horace Plunkitt, a witty young Irishman, since 
risen high in the public service of his native land, was 
on his legs speaking to a toast. He had just finished 
some remarks upon the high sense of honour and 
fidelity to verbal agreement prevailing among cow- 
men, when Arthur Teschemacher interpolated: 

" Yes ; a fine lot of honour you, Gilchrist, and 
Judge Cary show, coming in from north of the Platte 
and building irrigation ditches in our Chugwater 
country ! " 

To which Plunkitt replied, quick as a flash : 

*' Well, sir, do you know that I expect soon to see 
[295] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

many men turning the soil with ploughshares who 
to-day are making a devil of a racket and putting 
on a tremendous lot of side over their cattle shares ! " 

A prediction truly and sadly prophetic, for within 
the next three years more than half his fellow-diners 
were either ruined outright or forced to liquidate 
their ranch holdings on disastrous terms. 

Few long financially survived the golden year of 
'82. 

Then there were a dozen buyers for every seller ; 
and, as usually follows under such conditions, while 
the sellers were all enriched, most of the buyers were 
impoverished. 

For what comparatively small percentage of the 
cattle bought that year survived the two deadly hard 
winters that came next in succession, had to be fig- 
ured at prices declining so rapidly that only those 
quick to get out saved much. 

So it was trim out, ship to Chicago, and sell all the 
fat beef steers I could gather, and choose a buyer, 
from among the many, for ranches and range herd. 

Curiously my cowboys resented even more bitterly 
than did I myself the impending invasion and wiping 
out of the free range by the grangers — a few, per- 
haps, from the selfish realisation that it must mean 
for them declining wages, but more from an inborn 
[296] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

love of the wilds and of the constant interest and 
excitement of their perilous occupation, and, in some 
small measure, I venture to believe, from attachment 
to me. 

It was the life that absolutely all of my men were 
bred to. Of their calling they were proud as Lucifer. 
For farmers and tradesmen they actually felt and 
freely expressed the utmost contempt. 

From his own point of view, the cowboy was a 
Knight of the Golden Fleece, while soil tillers, me- 
chanics, and merchants were villain drudges, only 
tolerated when commanded to minister to his wants. 

As pacifier of the plains, he took himself as seri- 
ously, and bore himself as arrogantly, as any Roman 
legionary holding an outpost of the Empire in hostile 
barbarian territory. 

And in truth he was no less a fighting man, a sol- 
dier highly trained in the tactics that best suited his 
savage environment, than any legionary of them all, 
and bore no less honourable scars of his service. 

Throughout the nine months of his active working 
season, any day was likely to develop a battle in which 
he could not shirk hazarding his life. Indeed, most 
days did develop such a battle of one sort or another, 
and not infrequently of several different sorts. 

He was risking limb and life — and well knew it — 
[297] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

every time he roped and saddled an " outlaw," and 
in the spring, when raw and rollicky from several 
months' rest and freedom from restraint, more than 
half his mount of horses were sure for a time to be 
" outlaws " of more or less vicious type ; every time 
he sought to rope and tie any wild cow brute in the 
open ; every night he rode in the lead of a madly 
stampeding herd; every day he raced a wild bunch 
on the morning " circle," or rode into the afternoon 
round-up to " cut the herd " ; every day he worked 
within the branding pen, whether afoot or mounted ; 
every night of electrical storm he rode his trembling 
horse about the herd, rain pouring, thunder crashing, 
lightning flashing downright close about him as it 
rarely flashes anywhere else, attracted down the great 
column of heated air rising from the heaving herd, 
two most uncanny round balls of fire hovering on the 
tips of his horse's ears, cattle falling beneath the 
lightning strokes, and any moment likely to leave 
him a lightning-riven corpse ; any night he sat down 
by camp or ranch fireside to a game of seven-up or 
freeze-out with a mate; any day of the round-up he 
might find it necessary to object to the claim of some 
dimly branded beast by a neighbour's " rep " ; any 
time an Indian war party swept out upon him from 
ambush from behind a point of bluff or the conceal- 
[298] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

ment of a gulch, leaving him no hope but to run for 
the shelter of a rocky hill crest, if such were near, 
or, lacking it, to cut his horse's throat, and use its 
stiffening carcass as a breastwork against the charg- 
ing foe ! 

It was a fighting man's work, the cowboy's! 

No wonder he resented eviction, and stood at bay, 
sullen and threatening, contemptuous of the plodding 
hoe wielder and his menial weapon. 

As well expect a legionary to heat and beat his 
short sword into a spade ! 

And many was the night through the summer of 
'82 that all the outfit not standing turn at night 
guard round the herd, resolved themselves into a 
Committee of the Whole to debate ways and means 
to stop and turn back the invaders. 

Of the vast forces behind this first feeble, lapping 
wave of the oncoming tide of pioneer farmers, the 
cowboys were almost as ignorant as were the Indians 
who, a little more than a decade before, tried to stop 
an overland express with a lariat stretched across the 
track. 

Of its meaning and potentialities they only knew 
what they saw. 

Thus it was not surprising they found it so hard 
to understand why ranch owners were not as ready 
[299] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

to fight off encroaching settlers as raiding Indians, 
and " chase them back wliar they come from." 

All lines of strategy they had to suggest were in- 
teresting, many original and startling. And for that 
I failed to find any of their suggestions so far prac- 
tical that I could adopt and undertake to carry them 
out, I know lost me no small measure of whatever 
respect they had previously entertained for me. 

One chill night of early autumn we were camped 
on Sun Dance Lodge Creek, out on our last beef 
round-up. 

Within a stone's throw of our camp fire stood the 
ruin of the great lodge within which, a few months 
before we first came into the country, in the spring 
of '77, Red Cloud's Ogallala Sioux celebrated the 
last Sun Dance they were ever to hold among the 
White River Hills and gorges that for generations 
had been their favourite stronghold. 

A few score standing cottonwood poles, with sheets 
and fragments of loosened gray bark now clinging 
to them, and then swinging in the wind like torn rem- 
nants of a last winding-sheet, veritable mummies of 
the tall, supple, graceful, swaying trunks they once 
had been, were all that remained to mark the outline 
of the great lodge or hint of the ceremonial mysteries 
it had sheltered. Beneath the roof these now feeble 
[300] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

trunks once had borne, many a doughty warrior had 
undergone some frightful torture in the fulfihnent 
of some vow ; many another had there shed his blood 
and calmly watched the rending of his unshrinking 
flesh to win the favour of his Wokanda in some haz- 
ardous adventure he contemplated ; many a stout- 
hearted youngster there first earned his right to rank 
as warrior. 

Alone, as occasionally happened, about this totter- 
ing temple of a primitive people, the place of worship 
of deities already old when those of Thebes were still 
young, often have I long stood in silent awe of the 
majesty of a cult that could inspire its exemplars to 
unflinchingly court and endure the cruellest physical 
torture in propitiation of its deities. 

But that particular night was not one for musing. 

Comparatively few more days remained to me on 
my old home range, and the boys knew it. 

This they understood was to be my last round-up 
of the Three Crow Brand. 

So, while we lay smoking in the firelight, huddled 
about the snapping juniper logs, as if by precon- 
certed arrangement, the boys opened on me with their 
weightiest arguments and shrewdest strategy. 

" Ain't goin' t' shore give her up, are yu, ol' 
man ? " softly queried Johnny Baggott. 
[301 ] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

" Give what up? " I asked, for at the moment my 
thoughts were far afield. 

" Why, th' Deadman Ranch an' Three Crow 
Brand," he answered. 

" Nothing else for it, Johnny ; we could scrap In- 
dians and rustlers, but we can't stand off grangers 
and Uncle Sam's land laws. Under his laws they have 
all the rights ; we none. Two or three years at the 
most would see our finish if we tried to stay. Once 
they've homesteaded the valley water fronts, what 
could we do for water.? " 

" You jest say th' word, ol' man," came Johnny's 
quick reply, " an' what we'll do for water will be did 
before them post-hole-diggin', gopherin' jaspers ever 
gits airy d n homestead within our lines. 

" We'll jest nachally lite in an' buffalo 'em as fast 
as they show up, an' any we caint buffalo we'll shell 
so much hell out of their ghostiscs '11 lite right back 
an' warn their kin folk they better stay to hum." 

This from a little, five-foot ninety-pounder any 
granger could break in two with one hand — if he 
could be caught without a gun — but a man with more 
reckless dare-deviltry in his mental make-up than I 
ever saw wrapped up in double his scant quota of 
hide. 

"Shucks!" chipped in Charley Farrcll; " thar 
[302] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

ain't no fight in them plough-chasin', churn-twistin' 
'pologies for real men. We could take a bunch of corn 
cobs an' hghtnin' bugs an' make 'em run till their 
tongues are hangin' out long enough for calf ropes. 
Them fight? Nix. Not on your tin-type. 

" I'm for throwin' out three dead-line camps, one 
on Snake Creek on th' Sidney trail, one on Sheep 
Creek on th' Janisse trail, an' one on Rawhide on th' 
Fort Laramie trail, an' stoppin' every waggon that 
flashes up a sun bunnet or a diggin' tool, warnin' 'em 
first peaceable, but makin' plain we'i'e dealin' th' 
cards an' keepin' cases, an' then handin' out lead a 
plenty to any that's got sand to put up a war play. 
But 7'w allowin' she won't need no heavy jag of lead." 

" But, Charley," I interposed, " you'd be badly 
overplaying your hand, at that gait. What you'd be 
up against in that game Louis Changro well put, the 
time we thought the Sioux were going to hit the war- 
path, when I asked him if the garrisons at Fort Sher- 
idan and Robinson would not serve to hold the tribe 
in check. You remember his reply : 

" ' No! Injun he no give a d n for soldier; lick 

soldier. But Injun he no like cowboys or whoa-haw 
men'" (mule-skinners and bull- whackers). "'Cow- 
boy he ride and fight like Injun; whoa-haw man, he 
no got horse an' got to fight.' 
[303] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

"We'd find the grangers just like Louis's whoa- 
haw men, except that a hundred new ones would be in 
upon us for every one we planted, with a bunch of 
Uncle Sam's troops to close-herd them." 

" Wall, ol' man," Charley coolly answered, " your 
Uncle Sam ain't no near kin folk o' mine, or of any 
th' other boys o' this outfit, an' ef you jest turns us 
loose will shore go him an' his'n a whirl, too, as long 
as thar's ca'tridgcs in our belts an' a hoss between our 
knees, 'fore we'll let a passle o' tame-feed-growin', 
fence-buildin' grangers horn us off our own proper 
bed ground." 

And mind, Charley's talk was no idle vapouring 
or bluff, for he was a man ever ready to stack up 
blues (spherical of form, lead of material), as long 
as he had any left, on any hand he started out to 
play. 

Then out came Concho Curly with tliis rare piece 
of strategy: 

" Fellers, th' ol' man is dead right. Ef we-all gits 
to killin' of them-all, it's a cinch Uncle Sam '11 git 
in an' want to draw more cards than we-all can hand 
him convenient. 

" But I've got her. Let's a bunch of us slip round 
north through th' Bad Lands, hit th' outside Sioux 
camps round th' mouth o' Wounded Knee, an' kill up 
[304] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

enough bucks to git feathers an' blankets to rig up 
like Injuns all our outfit, th' TOT's, an' th' Lazy 
Qc's, git them two outfits to pike along with us, an' 
jest nachally make them dod-burned short-horns 
think Red Cloud's comin' to call on 'em with his hull 

d d skelp-liftin' family. All we'll have to do will 

be to show up on a ridge an' holler, an' then they'll 
lite in an' run their fool selves to death tryin' to git 
away. Caint tech us f er that, kin they ? " 

And when I reminded Curly that we were no longer 
at war with the Sioux, and that Uncle Sam was sworn 
to protect red and white alike, Curly growled: 

" Shucks ! I hain't got no more use for Uncle Sam 
than Farrell thar ; let's go him a whirl, then ! " 

Then the resourceful Tex got verbally busy. 

" 01' man," he said, " we-all knows you-all ain't 
no quitter, an' you-all knows we-all will foller you 
right up agin hell's hottest back log. So, p'rsonally, 
I'm allowin' you has good private reasons for not 
puttin' up a fight. Now, if you-all wants to win out 
easy, without any real violence, why not a passle 
of us slip down an' burn th' Laramie an' Sidney 
bridges.'' That will shore settle them skim-milk 
experts, for nairy one of 'em will ever resk swimmin' 
the Platte ! " 

" No, Tex ; you're plumb locoed," broke in Cali- 
[305] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

fornia Bill ; " you caint fire things up no more'n 
shoot folks up, 'thout gittin' bumped." 

And then he proceeded to prove his higher place 
in the scale of civilisation by ardently urging we 
should regularly organise as a Vigilance Committee, 
duly arrest all trespassing grangers, duly give them 
the full and fair trial the Mgilant Code provides, 
and duly pass and execute upon them its most popu- 
lar verdict — death ! 

About this time the discussion was interrupted by 
the calling of Bill and Farrell to stand the next relief 
on night herd, and the rest of us rolled up in our 
blankets — I with a heart full of appreciation of the 
sheer, stark loyalty to me and my interests of my 
bunch of untamed rawhides. 

Before coming out to make this last beef ship- 
ment, I had already arranged a tentative sale of the 
remaining cattle and the ranches. An inspection 
by the representative of the proposed buyer alone 
remained to be made: if satisfactory, the trade was 
closed. 

The buyer was one of my own partners, the Hon. 
Abram S. Hewitt, who was so confident the large 
profits we were then earning would continue that, 
unheeding my warnings and disregarding my urging 
to allow me to sell to others, insisted on buying out 
[306] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

my interest and that of the other partners, all the 
rest of whom elected to follow my judgment. 

His chosen representative was Bartlett Richards, 
a good friend of mine, and one of the cleverest of the 
younger set of Eastern men then on the Wyoming 
range. 

It was late October when, after a hard week in the 
saddle, on the jump from daylight till dark, riding 
over the six hundred square miles, roughly, that 
composed my range, we finished the inspection, and 
I spent my last night beneath the roof of my Dead- 
man Home Ranch. 

The ranch was deserted that night of all save our 
two selves, the outfit away on the Niobrara, engaged 
in making the last calf round-up for branding. 

We had to cook our own supper. And little it 
was we cooked, for, though hungry enough, we were 
still more tired. 

So it was early when we both turned into the double 
bunk in my room, Bart next the wall. 

But, tired as I was, I found I could not sleep. 

There I lay for hours, till the embers died out on 
the hearth, and the rude fittings of the room were 
lost among the shadows, all, curiously, save the corner 
where we had set our rifles and hung our belts, which 
for a time were brightly illumined by moonbeams 
[307] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

entering through the one httle window of the room, 
beams that Hngered and glinted on the gun barrels 
until, perhaps half hypnotised, I fell into a mad 
reverie whether, after all, they had not been a better 
alternative than, through a sale, turning tail, a rev- 
erie from which I passed into deep sleep and vivid 
dreams, wherein bridges were burning, pistols flash- 
ing, grangers screaming ! 

The next forenoon we located the outfit at the 
Whistler Creek Ranch, and there I paid off my raw- 
hides and bade them good-bye. 

And, save two, not one of their loyal faces have I 
ever seen since. 

There were no wet eyes at the parting, but the 
hand-grips were firm and the " So longs ! " husky. 

And then Bartlett and I mounted again and rode 
off east down the Valley of the Niobrara to take the 
night stage south. 

Where the Sidney-Deadwood stage road crossed 
the Niobrara, stood a stage station — on the west of 
the road a diminutive store and saloon, which was 
also the post office of Niobrara ranchmen, on the east 
the stage stable. 

The lone saloon-keeper and the lone stock-tender 
were then the only residents of a beautiful bend of 
the valley, now probably a thriving town. 
[308] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

We reached the station about sunset. 

And who should be there, to my great dehght, but 
my staunch friend, Charlie Nebo, come up from the 
Hunter & Evans Ranch, twenty miles east, for his 
mail. 

Of course I told him of my sale, that I was leav- 
ing the country for good, and introduced and 
recommended to his kind offices my successor, Mr. 
Richards. 

" Wall, I'll be d d ! " frankly remarked Nebo, 

" done losed a neighbour I had use f o' " — liked — " an' 
won a new one I caint tell whether I'll have any use f o' 
or not. But, son," to me, " this young feller looks 
good to me, an' ef he don't get gay an' totes fair, for 
your sake I'll make her a part of Nebo's private busi- 
ness to see he don't get cold-decked none. 

" An', son, I allows a partin' an' a meetin' thisaway 
creates a special pressin' need for liquor — let's go in 
an' hit her a few ! " 

And in we went, and up against the rude little bar 
we braced, in deference to Nebo's practical sugges- 
tion: 

" Fellers, let's stand ; allers 'peared to me th' liquor 
gits into you deeper an' you kin feel her further when 
she's chambered standin'." 

So there we stood for the next two hours, fre- 
[309] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

quently firing (up), but never falling back, receiving 
charges of " road ranch rot-gut " of the sort Charlie 
Russell (that past-master of plains folk and plains 
craft) swears " would make a humming-bird spit in a 
rattlesnake's eye ! " 

Of course the granger invasion was discussed, and 
it was a satisfaction to find that the more experienced 
Nebo held the same views as mine. 

" Son, you're shorely dead right," he commented; 
" won't be more 'n three more year to th' most 'fore 
this yere young feller '11 find hisself chased plumb out 
on th' end of a limb, with nothin' but hosstile gran- 
gers behind an' below him. Th' Newmans are pullin' 
their freight for Montana already, an' I reckon agin 
spring ol' Dave Hunter '11 be orderin' me to pull down 
my tepee an' travois north." 

Luckily, before Nebo had time to liand out any 
more like cheer to my good friend Bart, we heard up 
the road the shrill " Yip ! Yip ! Yip ! " of the stage 
driver, crying his arrival to the stock-tender. 

By the time we were out into the darkness and 
across the road, the coach rolled in and stopped, and 
old John Bingham climbed down from the box, the 
last of the old-time Overland drivers still pulling the 
ribbons in our parts. 

" John," I called, " here's two of us for Sidney." 
[310] 



ADIOS TO UEADMAN 

" Mighty sorry, Colonel ; can't take you. Nine in- 
side and two on the box with me." 

" Well, John," I said, " that is tough ; but we've 
got to go, and so we'll just sit on the roof, hang 
our legs over the guard rail, and — " Just then 
Nebo interrupted: 

" Wall, I reckon you-all won't do airy d n fool 

thing like that. Why, 'fore you get to the Platte, 
your durn legs would jest nachally get ampitated 
by that little ol' iron rod, an' drop off ! " 

And then, stepping quickly up to the nigh door 
of the coach, all of whose curtains were tightly but- 
toned down to keep out the cold night air, Nebo 
remarked, quietly but with a crisp ring in his voice 
no expert could mistake: 

" You Deadwood gophirs inside thar ! Set up an' 
take notice it's Nebo — Charles Nebo of th' Pecos — a 
addressin' of you. Two o' Nebo's p'rticular friends 
needs places to set down inside that thar stage, an' 
Nebo wants two o' you jaspers to hop out right 
sudden an' make 'em room ! " 

No answer from within the coach. 

Perhaps a minute's pause, and then Nebo threw 
his hand back on his gun and resumed, in low tones 
of deadly menace: 

" Fellers, Nebo never calls but three times, an' 
[311] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

this is Call No. 2! If two of jou don't come jumpin' 
out o' thar right quick, I'll shell up that coach till 
she looks like Bill Thompson's back after Jim Tucker 
emptied two barrels o' bird shot into him." 

In the meantime, for various reasons, I had moved 
up alongside of Nebo. 

Most coach loads in those days held some real 
men, and that coach was no exception, for she held 
McMasters, of Deadwood, a mine boss who himself 
was no novice at gun-plays. 

The moment Nebo finished, McMasters, pistol In 
hand, opened the coach door; but before he or Nebo 
could fire I gave the latter a push that nearly upset 
him, jumped in and grabbed McMasters, shoved him 
back into the coach, and assured him there would be 
no trouble if he sat still and shut up. 

Then I collared my all too-zealous friend Nebo 
and dragged him back to the saloon, where, in an- 
other cup of red eye, he solemnly pledged mc he 
would interfere no further. 

" Shore, you're right ! " he admitted. " She's your 
funeral ; an' if you-all wants to quit this range laig- 
less, 'tain't for me to cut in none." 

But keep his pledge he could not, as we soon 
learned. 

While Bart and I were groping about in the dark 
[312] 



ADIOS TO DEADMAN 

back room of the saloon for our saddle-bags, a wild 
yell of terror from the coach brought us out on 
the run. 

But it was high comedy of a rare type, and not 
tragedy, the little coach door now framed. 

The moment we had passed into the inner room, 
Nebo had hurried to the coach and slit the canvas 
cover of the door with his belt knife, when — outrage 
of all last conceivable ! — there within, comfortably 
cuddled on the back seat, he had discovered three 
Chinamen ! 

Instantly reaching in and grabbing the nearest 
Chinaman by the cue, by the time we reached him 
he had the poor Celestial's head and shoulders 
dragged through the rent upper half of the canvas 
door, and there they were tugging — Charlie with 
the cue twisted about his hands and a foot braced 
on the coach step, trying to yank him out, the 
Chink clinging madly to the door frame to save 
himself. 

"You little d d ol' two-legged maverick !" Nebo 

was calling. " I'll git you yet ef this tail-holt don't 
slip none. Come out o' thar an' I'll tie a couple o' 
you on th' boot — good enough for such little tail- 
growin' 'pologies for humans as you-all." 

And when I insisted he turn the Chink loose, Char- 
[313] 



REMINISCENCES OF A RANCHMAN 

lie suddenly slashed off the cue close to its wearer's 
head and tossed it to me with: 

" Well, son, here's a macate to tie yourself on th' 
waggon with ef you're bound to climb her bareback." 

And then he added reflectively: 

" Wonder whatever in hell I always let a little ol' 
Yankee kid like you-all horn me off for ? " 

A query, however, he himself silently answered a 
moment later with a parting hand-grip that nearly 
crushed my fingers. 



THE END 



[314] 



OCT 17 1908 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



014 612 002 7 • 



'liiiiiir 



